*» 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 


"  Don't  be  mean,  my  little  Dutch  Queen, 
But  name  our  wedding  day." 


THE  DIARY  OF  A 
SHOW-GIRL 

BY 

GRACE  LUCE  IRWIN 


Illustrated  by 
WALLACE  MORGAN 


NEW  YORK 
MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 

1909 


Copyright,  1909,  by 

MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YOBK 

All  Rights  Reserved 
Publiehed,  March,  1909 


THE   QUINN    &    BODEN    CO.    PRESS 
RAHWAY,    N.    J. 


fs 

35,  / 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE  KICK-OFF          .  .         1 

II.     ON  THE  RUN      ...       27 

III.     THE  SCRIMMAGE       .  .       55 

IV.    BUCKING  THE  LINE  .  .       82 

V.    THE  TOUCHDOWN     .  .     112 

VI.     THE  GOAL  KICK  147 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"  Don't  be  mean,  my  little  Dutch  Queen — 
But  name  our  wedding  day." 

Frontispiece 

Of  course  I  always  wanted  to  be  an 

actress 3 

I  began  to  whirl  and  side-step        .        .          6 

"  Higgins,    you    pay    attention    after 

this" 9 

Gee,  what  a  jay  he  looked!     ...  15 

Gracious,  how  good  it  felt!     ...  21 

Admiring  the  set  of  them  A.  1.  wings  .  37 

It  was  something  like  the  Dutch  dance  .  43 

Jim  lit  into  him  like  an  old  stamp-mill  .  51 

"  I'd   rather   look  like   a   grasshopper 

than  a  frog,"  I  says  ....        67 

Playing  I  was  leading  lady   ...        69 

"  You  impudent,  horrid,  impudent,  dis- 
gusting, impudent —  '  .        .        .        .       76 
ix 


x  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

I  just  flew  at  the  song.     I  choked  it,  I 

bamboozled  it 79 

They  was  fine  looking — one  of  them  had 
on  the  gladdest  kind  of  an  evening 
shell 80 

"  What  I  am  looking  for  is  proposals  "     109 
Then  I  swept  into  Rector's       .        .        .131 

"  I  love  you  well  enough  to  come  back — 

and  stay " 145 

"  I   want   my   money.     This    ain't   no 

Christmas  gift "  ....     159 

I  had  on  them  embroidered  hose,  too    .     167 


THE   KICK-OFF 

JAN.  28th,  190—. 

"  Old  Bill  " — he's  our  stage  manager 
— said  to  me  yesterday,  "  You  and  Mc- 
Cann  better  room  together  this  show  " 
— so  we  went  right  up  to  the  boarding- 
house  together.  I  better  explain  right 
here  that  McCann  is  a  peach,  the  kind 
of  girl  you  can  borrow  a  button-hook 
of  when  she's  still  in  her  stocking  feet. 
She  ajways  has  an  extra  package  of 
gum  to  give  a  fellow — True  Peruvian 
she  is! 

When  I  was  a  mere  infant,  going  to 
grammar  school  back  in  my  home  town 
— Paris,  Ohio — I  spent  a  long  time  de- 
ciding just  what  I'd  be.  Of  course  I 
always  wanted  to  be  an  actress,  but 
then  writers  is  some  sought  after,  and  I 


2          DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

could  always  write  down  my  thoughts 
so  lovely, — writing  comes  as  easy  as 
talking  to  me.  But  next  I  would  look 
in  the  glass,  and  sing  a  song,  acting  all 
the  while  to  myself,  and  knew  I  was  a 
born  actress.  Mama  and  papa  both 
said  so.  And  with  all  that  talent  I 
ought  to  do  something  with  it ! 

Jan.  29th. — We  had  a  rehearsal  yes- 
terday— the  fifth  this  week.  It  lasted 
from  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  until 
three  o'clock  last  night.  My,  it  was 
grand!  I  had  a  piece  of  pie  and  two 
crackers  for  my  supper.  I  am  in  the 
third  row  from  the  front  in  the  butter- 
fly costume,  and  the  second  from  the 
end  in  the  Black  Bats.  Molly  McCann 
says  I'm  awful  lucky  to  get  so  near  the 
front,  and  she  ought  to  know  as  she's 
been  on  the  road  four  years  and  I'm 
just  a  beginner.  Why,  sometimes 
"  Old  Bill  "  calls  her  by  her  first  name. 
.  .  .  Just  think,  one  year  ago  I  was 
washing  mother's  windows  back  in 


THE  KICK-OFF 


Of  course  I  always  wanted  to  be  an  actress. 


4          DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

Paris,  Ohio.  Gee,  how  dirty  they  must 
be  now.  Poor  old  mother!  I  haven't 
written  her  but  once  since  I  left  home. 
I've  been  standing  twelve  hours  a  day 
on  my  tootsies,  selling  spools  of  thread 
in  a  14th  Street  Bargain  Emporium, 
everything  marked  down  to  thirty  cents 
— till  at  last  by  hanging  around  the  the- 
aters every  night  I  could  sneak,  I  made 
a  phoney  stage  manager  push  me  out  of 
his  way.  It  was  "  Old  Bill,"  ten  days 
ago, — he's  not  so  very  old  either,  but  he 
knows  it  all. 

"  Wait,"  I  said,  just  like  that,  "  I 
want  to  speak  to  you." 

"You  can't!  No  time!"  he  says, 
without  looking  at  me.  That's  the  trou- 
ble ;  they  won't  even  look  at  you,  but  I 
grabbed  his  coat. 

"  I'm  starving! "  I  cried,  as  quick  as 
I  could,  for  two  cornet  blowers  and  a 
electrician  was  waiting  to  nab  him — 
"  you  promised  me  a  job  in  your  next 
chorus." 

Of  course  he  hadn't,  but  I'd  learned 


THE  KICK-OFF  5 

you  have  to  lie — just  like  that.  Then 
he  looked  at  me. 

"Pooh!"  he  said  after  a  minute. 
"You  can't  sing!" 

Then  I  squealed  out  right  there  in 
front  of  the  theater,  a  Dotty  Dimple 
chorus,  about  "  Can't  I  be  Your  Hono- 
lulu Queen? "  till  he  started  away 
again,  with  his  hands  to  his  ears. 

"  What  I  want  is  dancers!  "  he  called 
back  over  his  shoulder.  '  You  can't 
dance !  "  He  was  almost  out  to  the  side- 
walk then,  and  I  began  to  whirl  and 
side-step  like  I  saw  a  girl  do  at  one  of 
the  roof -gar  dens  last  summer.  But  he 
made  tracks  for  his  automobubble  and 
went  off — chuff!  chuff!  I  was  again 
alone  in  a  damp,  dim  world,  with  the 
lights  all  on  me,  and  no  one  to  ring 
down  the  curtain. 

But  I  was  there  with  bells  next  night, 
and  then  he  said  I  might  try.  Then  I 
went  inside  with  him — into  the  land  of 
glory!  All  the  empty  seats  were  cov- 
ered with  dirty  cloth  and  old  scrub- 


DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 


I  began  to  whirl  and  side-step. 

women  were  sweeping  and  scrubbing 
up  the  aisles  and  the  dust  was  thi  . 
Old  programs  and  cigar  butts  in  the 
orchestra  place,  a  smell  of  dead  flowers 


THE  KICK-OFF  7 

in  the  air — what  there  was  of  it.  Not  a 
footlight  or  a  bit  of  scenery — just  a 
'normous  big  dark  space,  with  a  lot  of 
little  figures  moving  about.  Then  the 
footlights  came  up  and  I  saw  McCann 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  girls  looking  at 
me,  as  if  my  hair  was  dyed  and  I  wore 
hip  padding  that  wobbled.  My,  some 
of  those  girls  are  beauties !  The  men  in 
the  chorus  just  winked  when  they  saw 
me  coming  up  the  aisle.  But  of  course 
the  chorus  men  don't  count.  I  guess 
they  could  see  I  had  no  experience.  All 
the  experience  I  ever  had  was  doing 
housework  back  in  Paris,  Ohio,  and 
watching  Sunday  night  vaudevilles  here 
in  N.  Y.,  from  the  gallery,  trying  to 
make  fresh  people  who  didn't  know  me 
stop  trying  to  get  acquainted.  I'm 
sorry  I  didn't  write  to  mother  but  once 
since  I've  been  in  New  York,  but  I 
hated  to  let  her  know  I  was  being  sort 
of  back-stop  at  the  spool  counter — it's 
30  easy  writing  down  my  thoughts,  but 
that's  different  from  writing  letters.  I 


8  DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

don't  get  no  time.    I'm  overworked  as 
it  is. 

Jan.  30th. — The  star  came  in  to-day. 
He  was  beautifully  dressed!  He  was 
late.  Gray  gaiters,  too! 

Jan.  31st. — McCann  and  I  quarreled 
to-day  over  how  our  hair  should  be  done 
when  we  are  off  stage.  Of  course  peo- 
ple stare  so  when  they  know  you're  in 
the  "  The  Babes  in  Woodland."  I  say 
do  your  hair  round  and  round,  and  she 
says  up  and  over.  It  all  depends  on 
your  nose  anyway.  Folks  will  be  so  in- 
terested in  these  notes  after  I  get  a  little 
bit  better  known.  I'm  nearly  famous 
already.  Last  night  a  elevator  boy 
pointed  me  out  as  one  of  "  them  babes 
in  the  woods."  I  draped  a  red  veil  over 
my  hat  and  basted  some  dinky  lace  in 
my  collar  for  rehearsals.  These  things 
count.  Molly  helped  me. 

Feb.  5th. — Sometimes  my  legs  ache 
so  I  can  hardly  make  them  kick.  But 


THE  KICK-OFF 


Wiggins,  you  pay  attention  after  this.    And  pull  up  your  stockings ! 


10        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

I  must.  I  never  thought  it  could  tire 
one  so  to  weave  a  chain  of  butterflies  up 
and  down  the  stage  three  times,  inter- 
weave, dance,  march  and  dance,  march 
—  dance  -  -  interweave  -  -  march.  My 
wings  are  bum — always  in  the  way,  and 
Grandcourt  got  mixed  up  in  them.  She 
said  it  was  my  fault.  I  told  her  there 
never  was  such  a  name  as  Grandcourt, 
anyway,  and  I  believed  it  was  Casey. 

"  Here,  you  butterflies,"  yelled  some- 
body, "  quit  your  scrappin'."  It  was  a 
new  man  I  hadn't  seen  before.  He  was 
standing  right  in  among  the  Union  men 
who  play  the  horns  and  things.  He  is 
a  fat,  short,  bald  man  with  a  long  nose. 

"  Here  you,  three  from  the  front,"  he 
said  to  me,  "  come  out  here,  what  do  you 
suppose  I'm  payin'  you  sixteen  dollars 
a  week  for?  It's  good  money,  ain't  it? 
Oh,  you're  a  new  one — Higgins !  Well, 
Higgins,  you  pay  attention  after  this. 
And  pull  up  your  stockings!  They 
mustn't  wrinkle.  That's  a  shine  way  to 
do  your  hair.  Better  next  time.  Oh! 


THE  KICK-OFF  11 

Of  course.  Never  mind,  dearie,  don't 
you  cry!  "  And  there  I  was,  with  tears 
come  to  my  eyes.  I  must  have  looked 
such  a  greenie. 

"  He  don't  mean  anything,"  said  Mr. 
Smith,  a  chorus  man,  in  the  wings  to 
me.  "  I  never  was  so  called  down  in  my 
life,"  says  I.  "  Not  even  by  Mr.  James 
Percivant,  the  floor- walker." 

"  Oh,  the  '  old  man  '  don't  mean  any- 
thing," piped  up  Smith  again.  "  He 
just  owns  the  show." 

Just  think  of  it — he  owns  a  show ! 

Why,  he  even  told  Mr.  Bradley,  who 
has  a  line  to  say  twice  in  the  first  act,  to 
come  down  to  the  footlights,  and  say 
them  all  over  again.  Everyone  looked 
scared  and  tired,  and  trying  hard  to 
please,  and  then  after  he  went  every- 
body laughed  and  said  to  everybody 
else,  "  The  old  man  doesn't  mean  any- 
thing." 

I  was  so  set  up  when  I  got  my  little, 
old  salary  to-night  just  as  if  nothing 
had  happened. 


12         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

Feb.  8th. — They've  got  a  playwright 
to  this  show  that  could  write  a  song  to 
a  pair  of  suspenders.  "  The  old  man  " 
has  some  Dutch  costumes  left  over  from 
a  show  that  failed,  and  the  prima  donna 
looks  nice  in  them,  so  he  had  to  write  a 
song  to  any  old  tune. 

They  didn't  want  it  sung  in  the  first 
act  right  after  the  King  of  the  Eagles 
runs  off  with  the  Fairy  Princess,  in  the 
Enchanted  Forest,  so  they  put  it  in  the 
second  act,  where  the  Princess  is  receiv- 
ing her  admirers  while  they're  carrying 
on  the  plot  in  a  Louis  XV  flat  in  a  pal- 
ace in  Paris.  Of  course  a  lot  of  Dutch 
girls  and  boys  do  look  kind  of  queer 
coming  right  into  a  pink  and  white 
French  boudoir  scene,  but  the  leading 
lady  sings  it  swell,  and  I'm  one  of 
the  Dutch  kids.  Such  a  cute  get-up. 
They'll  notice  me  in  the  papers  and  I 
will  become  a  star  and  they'll  hear 
of  me  way  back  in  Paris,  Ohio — 
all  because  of  that  Dutch  song, 
"Oh,  I  love  the  click  of  your  little 


THE  KICK-OFF  13 

wooden   shoes,    on   the   tiles   of   Am- 
sterdam." 

Feb.  8th. — Mr.  Smith  is  in  love  with 
me.  "  Nothing  but  a  chorus  man,"  says 
McCann,  "  they  don't  count,  there's 
girls  and  Johnnies  and  then  God  threw 
in  chorus  men.  They  don't  count." 

"  I  don't  count  him,"  I  says,  throw- 
ing back  my  red  veil.  "  Why,  I'm  one 
of  the  principals  almost;  I  stand  next 
to  the  prima  donna,  in  that  '  Tiles 
of  Amsterdam.'  I'm  going  to  pro- 
gress in  my  career.  I  won't  marry 
anybody — not  even  a  Pittsburgh  mil- 
lionaire." 

Molly  laughed  so  long  it  sounded 
mean.  She  wakes  me  up  every  morning 
practicing — "  The  carr-nage  was  e-tro- 
cious,  e-trocious,  e-trocious,"  then  I  tell 
her  it's  a-trocious,  but  every  day  when 
we  get  to  rehearsal  there  we  are  singing 
it  with  the  rest  of  the  crowd — "  The 
carr-nage  was  e-trocious — £-trocious — 
e-trocious," 


H         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

Feb.  10th.— I  don't  believe  Mr. 
Smith  is  in  love  with  me.  He  said 
"  Hullo,  Angel-Face,"  when  he  saw  me 
to-day.  I  am  trying  a  blue  veil  falling 
down  the  back. 

Feb.  14th.— Well,  we've  been  three 
days  out  of  New  York.  We're  trying 
*  The  Babes  '  on  the  dog,  and  you  could 
have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather, 
when  I  found  we  were  going  to  Paris, 
Ohio.  We  had  a  special  train — the 
principals,  and  the  playwright,  and  the 
stage  manager,  and  the  proprietor,  and 
the  financial  agent  and  the  press  agent, 
and  the  manager's  representative  and 
the  star's  brother  who  looks  after  his  in- 
terests and  the  owner's  secretary,  and 
another  manager  had  one  part  of  the 
train,  and  we  girls  had  one  car  to  our- 
selves and  the  chorus  men  the  other, 
next  the  scenery,  only  they  sat  with  us 
most  of  the  time.  Everybody  jollied. 

'  We  aren't  real  swell  chorus  girls, 
or  we  wouldn't  have  it,"  says  Molly; 


THE  KICK-OFF  15 

she  sighed.     "  Wait  till  we  make  our 
hit.    Then  we'll  be  Show-girls." 


Gee,  what  a  jay  he  looked  ! 

"  I'm  making  my  hit  to-morrow  night 
in  the  Tiles  of  Amsterdam,"  I  says.  I 
didn't  encourage  Mr.  Smith  at  all. 

The  day  before  we  left  New  York, 


16        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

just  as  I  was  coming  out  of  the  side 
entrance  of  the  theater  with  Mr.  Smith 
and  Mollyy  who  should  I  meet — just 
like  that,  but  Jim  Burns,  my  old  sweet- 
heart back  in  Ohio. 

"Why,  Minnie  Higgins!"  he  said, 
turning  sort  of  pale  around  the  gills. 

"  Why,  Jim  Burns  "  —I  said,  per- 
fectly at  ease,  and  stepped  back  with 
him.  Gee!  what  a  jay  he  looked!  in 
his  old  derby — after  that  soft  felt  hat 
that  Mr.  Smith  wears  with  a  pugaree, 
turned  down  over  the  neck  like  a  college 
fellow's. 

'  What  are  you  doing  in  a  theater 
this  time  of  day?  "  he  asks. 

"Acting!"  I  says,  chewing  hard, 
with  my  nose  in  the  air. 

"  You've  got  red  paint  on  your 
cheeks,"  says  he. 

"  Powder ! "  I  corrects  him.  "  Every- 
one does  it!  I'm  one  of  the  Black 
Bats." 

"Oh,  heavens!  Min — don't  you  re- 
member how  the  preacher  used  to  warn 


THE  KICK-OFF  17 

us  against  the  stage  back  in  Paris? 
What  fun  you  and  I  used  to  have  going 
to  prayer  meetings  together." 

"  Yes,  and  now  I  have  just  as  much 
fun  going  to  rehearsals,"  I  replied, 
shrugging  my  shoulders  as  that  lovely 
Miss  Wyncote,  our  leading  lady,  does. 
'  Why,  Minnie  Higgins!"  he  says, 
and  I  could  feel  his  love  for  me.  "  I 
hope  no  harm  comes  to  you,  of  all  this." 

*  We  open  up  in  Paris,  Ohio,  to-mor- 
row night,"  I  says.  "  Will  you  come?  " 

He  looked  ahead  at  Mr.  Smith  and 
McCann  and  he  shook  his  head,  he 
stared  at  me,  with  his  derby  pushed 
back,  and  then  he  said:  "  Sure!  "  Gee, 
what  a  jay  he  looked!  I've  been  a 
chorus  lady  three  weeks. 

That  night  we  went  down  to  the  de- 
pot and  piled  into  our  special  train — 
Molly  and  I  had  a  section  together  and 
in  the  morning  we  went  spinning  along. 
In  every  section  was  a  blonde  head  and 
a  raven  tresses  one,  and  as  we  sat  there 
looking  out,  we  were  a  regular  adver- 


18         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

tisement  at  every  station.  It  was  awful 
work,  keeping  our  hairpins  in  place. 
Grandcouft  said  it  was  all  favoritism, 
my  being  in  the  Dutch  song.  Every 
time  the  star  or  the  stage  manager  came 
into  the  car,  she  stood  up  and  butted 
in.  We  had  to  rehearse  as  soon  as  we 
got  to  Paris,  and  kept  it  up  for  five 
hours.  When  the  butterfly  chorus  came 
down  the  stage,  Grandcourt  said, 
"  Great  Scott!  "  under  her  breath,  gave 
me  a  little  shove — just  like  that,  and  I 
stumbled— I  almost  fell.  Old  Bill 
stopped  the  music.  Everyone's  gum 
froze  in  her  mouth! 

"Won't  do!  Clumsy!  Grandcourt, 
take  Higgins'  place.  Don't  you  rely  on 
your  pretty  face,  it's  feet  that  counts  in 
the  '  Babes  ' — go  back  to  the  last  row, 
Higgins." 

And  back  I  went.  But  I  didn't  shed 
no  tears  this  time. 

"  Angel-faces  don't  help  much," 
snapped  a  girl  as  if  she  was  glad  of  it, 
but  Grandcourt  didn't  say  a  thing. 


THE  KICK-OFF  19 

Her  face  couldn't  help  anybody — it's  a 
scream.  Anyway  when  we  got  to  the 
"  tiles  of  Amsterdam  "  I  was  all  right. 
Old  Bill  watched  my  feet  careful. 

"Stop  the  music,"  he  says;  "  Hig- 
gins  is  the  best  dancer,  she  better  have 
the  solo  dance." 

So  there  I  was,  dancing  alone  before 
them  all.  Even  the  star  and  the  scene- 
shifters  looked  at  me  hard.  I  see  my- 
self being  starred  with  a  racket  of 
drums  just  like  Fritzi  Scheff,  only  of 
course  I  am  a  better  dancer  than  she  is. 

We  didn't  have  a  bite  to  eat,  and  I 
thought  I  would  faint  away  in  the 
dressing-room — but  my  waist  was  so 
tight  I  couldn't. 

Everybody  in  Paris  had  turned  out 
—mama  and  papa  were  there,  and 
everyone  I  used  to  know  excepting  the 
preacher,  all  looking  for  me,  too,  and 
Jim  had  a  front  seat.  I  could  see  him 
from  the  back  row,  but  he  couldn't  see 
me.  I  could  hardly  wait  till  we  got  to 
that  Dutch  thing.  Then  the  Paris  peo- 


20        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

pie  saw  me  and  they  clapped  and 
clapped.  "  It's  a  go!  "  said  someone  in 
the  wings,  and  I  knew  they  meant  the 
song. 

Those  folks  didn't  care  that  it  was 
funny  to  see  Dutch  girls  and  boys  right 
there  in  the  Louis  XV  pink  drawing 
room.  They  liked  my  looks  in  those 
bloomer  pants  with  my  blonde  wig  cut 
off  at  my  ears  and  those  cute  wooden 
shoes.  They  were  just  crazy  over  Min- 
nie Higgins'  dancing  a  solo  dance  right 
there  before  them,  but  of  course  Miss 
Wyncote  took  the  encore. 

"  Of  course  it's  a  go,"  said  the  play- 
wright who  wrote  the  song;  "I'm  glad 
enough,  it  will  help  fill  out  my  score 
book ;  I  expect  to  make  a  few  thousands 
out  of  that." 

Just  think  of  it — Minnie  Higgins 
helping  a  man  to  make  a  few  thousands 
and  all  I  am  getting  is  16  a  week,  with 
all  I  eat  to  pay  for.  They  didn't  know 
I  was  brought  up  in  Paris,  Ohio,  no  one 
cared  to  ask  where  I  was  brought  up, 


THE  KICK-OFF 


Gracious,  how  good  it  felt ! 


2%        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

but  they  saw  my  dance  took.  They  cut 
out  part  of  Miss  Wyncote's  song,  after 
the  performance,  to  give  me  more  time 
the  next  night.  My,  that  made  her 
peevish.  The  playwright  said,  "  Hang 
it — I  didn't  write  the  dance!  "  I  heard 
the  fuss  as  I  went  out  the  side  door,  be- 
cause Jim  Burns  was  waiting  for  me. 

"  Well,  hasn't  Paris  done  itself 
proud?  "  he  asked  me.  "  Aren't  we  the 
people?  Ain't  this  a  fine  audyance?  " 

I  looked  at  him  in  perfect  surprise, 
as  if  that  was  any  way  to  talk  about  my 
hit. 

The  next  minute  there  was  mama 
and  papa  waiting  for  me.  I  just  fell 
in  her  arms  and  burst  out  crying.  She 
didn't  say  a  word,  just  held  me  close, 
never  a  word  about  not  writing,  noth- 
ing, just  held  me  close.  Gracious,  how 
good  it  felt ! 

'  Who  washes  your  windows  now, 
ma?  "  I  sobbed  out,  then  I  began  to 
laugh. 

"  How  much  do  they  pay  ye  for  all 


THE  KICK-OFF  23 

that  jig  stepping,  Minnie?"  asked 
papa.  $16.00  seems  a  good  deal  in 
Paris,  Ohio. 

"Well,  at  last  you're  an  actress!" 
says  mama  proudly.  "  I  don't  mind 
missing  you  so  much  now.  Just  think 
of  the  clapping  you  got." 

"  And  did  you  see  us  coming  up  from 
the  train?  "  I  said.  "  Everyone  run- 
ning out  of  the  stores  to  watch  us,  as 
we  walked  over  to  the  theater;  all  the 
clerks  nudged  each  other.  They  all 
knew  we  were  the  Black  Bats  from  the 
Babes." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  very  well,"  said  Jim, 
"  but  I  don't  like  the  game.  Do  you 
have  to  know  the  fellows  in  all  the 
towns  you  go  to?  " 

"  Hush,"  said  mother,  "  Minnie  has 
always  had  her  ambitions!  " 

In  the  morning,  going  on  to  the  next 
town  I  was  invited  into  the  front  car 
with  the  principals.  Miss  Wyncote  ad- 
vised me  to  do  my  hair  closer  to  my 
face,  and  to  get  a  new  jacket.  The 


24        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

stage-manager  said  I  had  made  good 
and  I  had  thrilling  emotions — all  of 
them  staring  at  me.  Of  course  when  I 
rode  in  that  car,  I  couldn't  be  expected 
to  associate  at  least  as  an  equal  with  the 
chorus  any  more.  I  felt  so  sorry  for 
McCann  and  Grandcourt  and  Mr. 
Smith.  I  had  luncheon  with  Miss 
Wyncote  when  we  arrived  and  now  I'm 
writing  about  it. 

P.  S. — Fritzi  Scheff  has  a  very  nice 
figure,  but  mine  is  better  for  dancing, 
because  I'm  taller.  That  counts.  Gee, 
but  I  am  glad  I've  got  a  straight  nose. 
After  all  a  German  face  never  could 
take  in  this  country  as  well  as  a  really 
beautiful  American  one.  I  suppose 
Fritzi  Scheff  will  hate  it  when  she 
knows  she  is  going  to  have  a  rival.  But 
then  she  has  had  her  chance,  now  I'm 
going  to  have  mine.  "  I  love  the  click 
of  those  little  wooden  shoes,  on  the  tiles 
of  Amsterdam." 


THE  KICK-OFF  25 

Later. — I  guess  I'll  never  forget  the 
sight  of  that  audience.  It  was  my  first 
real,  flesh  and  blood  audience,  all  the 
faces  turned  up  to  me,  just  urging  me 
on — the  music  and  the  lights,  and  the 
way  they  clapped,  why  it  was  more  ex- 
citing than  Coney  Island  on  a  summer's 
night  in  an  automobile  that  the  owner 
doesn't  know  is  out.  When  you're  on 
the  stage  you're  not  yourself.  You  just 
feel  like  some  wonderful  person  you've 
dreamed  about.  And  you  don't  want  to 
wake  up  either. 

Feb.  22nd. — On  the  train  speeding  to 
Chicago.  Well,  last  night  wasn't  so 
much.  Jim  followed  the  show  and  had 
a  front  seat.  He  wore  a  new  Tuxedo 
with  a  white  tie.  And  he  clapped  hard 
enough  to  break  his  life-line  in  two.  It 
didn't  make  a  bit  of  difference.  They 
didn't  like  that  Dutch  song  in  Dayton. 
They  sat  there  as  if  they  were  a  band  of 
wooden  Indians  out  with  some  stiffs  for 
a  funeral.  Once  they  turned  their  eyes 


26        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

because  a  society  leader  had  chasseed 
into  her  box.  My  dance  took,  anyway. 
The  audience  clapped,  but  nobody 
would  let  me  do  it  over.  Everything 
was  on  the  bum.  Here  I  am  back  in  the 
car  with  the  chorus.  Grandcourt  has 
her  dog  with  her,  so  of  course  can't 
speak  to  anybody  else,  and  McCann  has 
three  chorus  men,  and  Lovell  is  reading 
poetry.  She  is  weeping  over  it  and 
swallowing  her  gum,  she's  so  excited. 
"  Old  Bill  "  said  I  was  to  come  back  in 
this  car  because  they're  going  to  cut  out 
"  Amsterdam."  All  I  get  for  Chicago 
— is  three  rows  from  the  front  in  the 
Black  Bats.  Gee,  but  I'm  mad!  I'll 
beat  them  out  yet.  I  don't  know  what 
they  soured  on  it  for;  the  owner  of  the 
show  says  it  isn't  a  whistling  number. 
I  wish  I  had  known  they  wanted  folks 
to  whistle  it.  Jim  is  a  dandy  whistler! 


II 

ON  THE  RUN 

CHICAGO,  Feb.  20th,  190—. 

Being  a  Butterfly  isn't  all  it's  cracked 
up  to  be.  There's  a  blizzard  going  on, 
and  it  has  held  the  boards  ever  since  we 
tooted  into  this  prairie  town — why, 
every  old  thing  is  buried  under  a  foot 
of  soot  and  a  foot  of  snow.  McCann 
has  a  sore  throat.  It's  no  steam-heated, 
elevatored  apartment,  with  a  Buttons  at 
the  front  entrance  for  ours.  No,  what 
we  draw  is  a  back  street  exit  where  a 
Lake  breeze  plays  in  at  the  keyhole 
like  a  trombone,  when  the  hall-door  is 
opened.  We  go  skating  along  over 
slippery  sidewalks,  gripping  on  to  each 
other,  till  we  land  plump  in  a  pile  of 
snow.  Then  we  squirm  through  and 

27 


28         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

there's  the  stage  door.  I  see  sables  are 
marked  down  to  $4.92  cts.  so  perhaps  I 
can  save  up  and  get  one  next  week.  A 
girl  must  dress. 

The  first  night  we  got  here  we  re- 
hearsed from  three  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon— it  was  Sunday — till  three  that 
night.  The  chorus  has  to  change  its 
clothes  six  times,  and  most  of  the  girls 
has  at  least  five  different  dance  steps. 
Most  of  them  we  had  wrong.  In  the 
last  act  I  wear  an  electric  blue  spangle 
gown,  with  a  big  hat  to  match,  with  a 
pink  feather  falling  off  the  crown. 
While  we  performed  the  principals  sat 
in  the  scenery  and  had  a  talkfest.  Miss 
Wyncote  must  be  at  least  thirty-five. 
She  has  a  beautiful  figure,  but  she's  big 
and  stiff  and  walks  as  if  she  was  afraid 
some  one  wouldn't  know  she  was  a  lady. 
She's  smooth.  She  smiles  when  we 
speak  to  her,  but  I  wouldn't  dare  now 
to  set  next  to  her  any  more  than  I  would 
to  go  up  and  chuck  the  manager  under 
the  chin.  I  think  she's  got  a  case  on 


ON  THE  RUN  29 

the  star.  He's  such  a  dear!  I  love  his 
vests!  His  voice  is  so  grand  when  he 
sings  "  Good-bye,  my  Lady-lov' "  at 
the  rehearsals,  with  his  hat  on  the  side 
of  his  head.  It  is  a  derby,  so  some  of 
the  chorus  men  wear  derbys  now,  too, 
and  they  all  fix  them  on  the  side  of  their 
heads — on  the  same  side.  Anyway,  as 
Mr.  Smith  says,  we  are  just  one  big 
family!  Why,  I  can  imagine  if  my 
dead  body  was  found,  to-morrow, 
everybody,  even  the  stage  manager  and 
the  star,  would  shake  their  heads  and 
say,  "  Poor  Higgins!  " 

Well,  about  five  in  the  afternoon,  we 
had  a  little  rest,  while  the  principals 
got  their  turn.  Mr.  Bradley  took  me  to 
dinner  at  a  funny  little  joint  with  pic- 
tures done  by  artists  and  college  boys 
all  'round  on  the  walls.  We  had  a  real 
good  beefsteak  and  a  bottle  of  beer  and 
some  ice-cream  afterwards. 

'  The  trouble  with  this  comic  opera," 
says  Mr.  Bradley,  lighting  his  cigarette, 
"  is  that  it  has  too  many  songs  for  the 


30         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

star,  and  not  enough  opportunities  for 
the  rest  of  us.  I  am  told  by  those 
in  authority  that  we  are  to  have 
another  song  added  after  to-morrow 
night." 

"  What,  has  he  written  another 
one?  "  I  asked,  sipping  my  coffee. 

"  He's  afraid  of  interpolations,  and 
they've  tried  the  Dutch  song,  so  he's 
written  one  about 

"  Five  little  pickaninnies  back  in  old  Alabam', 
Wish  you  could  guess  which  one  is  ma  lamb." 

'  The   old   man   has   the    costumes, 
and  it  will  give  Grandcourt  a  chance 

"  Grandcourt!  "  I  could  see  her  pert 
wide  blonde  face  with  the  big  mouth 
and  the  twinkling  little  eyes.  How 
would  that  name  look  on  a  lighted  sign 
in  Broadway? 

People  would  think  it  was  a  garage 
for  Pullman  cars. 

"  Why  should  she  be  hauled  out  of 
the  chorus  any  more  than  I?  "  I  said, 


ON  THE  RUN  31 

quick,  just  like  that.  "  I  must  dance 
in  that  song — will  you  help  me?  " 

All  he  promised  was  to  help  me  care- 
fully into  my  new  imitation  broadcloth 
cloak,  and  we  went  back  to  the  theater. 
We  met  a  lot  of  them  on  the  corner,  and 
we  were  all  talking  and  laughing  so 
loud,  it  drew  a  crowd. 

Then  we  began  to  rehearse.  Every- 
one was  cross.  The  stage  manager  said 
Miss  Wyncote's  new  hat  made  her  look 
like  a  feather-duster,  then  she  cried  be- 
cause she  said  she  hadn't  known  they 
were  going  to  take  our  pictures  that 
evening  and  had  worn  her  old  clothes. 
So,  they  called  up  the  photographer 
again  and  he  took  her  picture  over 
again  alone  out  in  the  hall,  where  the 
flashlight  wouldn't  take  our  attention. 
She  came  back  wiping  her  eyes.  And 
the  star  got  mad  because  the  proprietor 
of  the  show  called  him  down  to  the  foot- 
lights, and  he  said  he  was  so  tired  al- 
ready that  if  he  had  to  stand  there  an- 
other minute,  he'd  drop  over  among  the 


32         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

musicers.  Then  the  stage  manager  said 
he'd  fire  the  electrician  if  the  spot  light 
didn't  follow  the  star  around  faster  in 
his  "  big  "  song,  and  Mr.  Bradley  for- 
got his  three  lines.  The  playwright  was 
talking  to  the  man  who  wrote  the  music, 
and  he  was  awful  mad  about  the  star 
saying  his  song  was  rotten,  no  chance 
for  business,  and  there  we  were  inter- 
weaving, march — double  march — dance, 
and  McCann's  decolltay  didn't  come 
together  in  the  back.  I  was  just  ready 
to  drop,  but  I  kept  my  eyes  open,  to 
hear  if  anything  was  said  about  the  new 
song,  with  a  dance  in  it. 

I  think  they  might  have  treated  us  to 
a  supper  at  eleven  o'clock.  Mr.  Smith 
sneaked  me  a  sandwich  at  half-past. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  the 
new  song  for  that  French  scene — Five 
little  Pickaninnies  down  in  old  Ala- 
bam'?  "  I  says.  "  Watch  Grandcourt. 
You  never  can  tell  what  will  happen  to 
a  chorus  girl  who  always  butts  in." 

"  You  bet  I'll  watch  her,"  he  says. 


ON  THE  RUN  33 

"  Her  dog  kept  me  awake  last  night, 
and  it's  the  only  room  left  in  the  house." 

At  twelve  o'clock,  when  the  princi- 
pals were  jarring  about  their  cues,  I  ap- 
proached the  playwright. 

"Mr.  Orden,"  I  says.  "Beg  par- 
don, but  I  hear  you've  written  a  new 
song." 

"Who  told  you  that?"  he  asked, 
turning  on  me  quick — like  that — I  had 
on  a  new  hat. 

"  Nobody,"  I  said,  "  but  I  love  that 
Amsterdam  song  of  yours.  You  are  a 
wonderful  genius.  I  know  this  Pick- 
aninny one  must  be  great.  I  wish  I 
could  sing  in  it." 

"  They  won't  try  it,"  he  hissed  be- 
tween his  teeth.  "  They  won't  even  try 
it,  and  all  my  friends  coming  to-morrow 
night.  Why,  they  all  know  about  that 
song.  I've  been  singing  it  to  them  for 
years,  and  at  last  I  thought  I  had 
landed  it.  They'll  be  watching  for  it. 
I  am  going  home  to  bed." 

That  sounded  so  tragic. 


34        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

"  If  you'll  give  me  a  copy  of  that 
song,"  I  says  quick,  my  heart  beating 
so  fast  under  my  silk  shirt-waist,  "I'll 
learn  it  before  Tuesday  night.  I'll  sing 
it  at  Tuesday  rehearsal.  They  know 
my  dance.  I'll  sing  it  there,  in  the  in- 
termission, as  if  I  was  just  practicing 

for  fun,  then  the  stage  manager  may 
U  _  » 

1  L 


He  grabbed  up  a  paper  and  gave  it 
to  me,  and  began  humming  the  tune, 
and  then  he  got  the  music.  I  could  read 
it,  because  I  sang  in  the  church  choir 
once  for  two  months. 

At  three  o'clock  that  night  they  let 
us  all  go  home.  We  were  so  tired  we 
could  hardly  walk.  "What's  up?" 
said  Mr.  Smith,  outside  the  theater, 
chattering  to  keep  himself  warm. 
"  Grandcourt's  got  a  new  song  to  learn, 
all  about  '  Pierrot  Pierrette,  I  love  you 
yet.'  What  is  a  chorus  girl  doing  with 
a  new  song  for  herself?  She  says  she's 
going  to  learn  it  to  sing  at  Tuesday  re- 
hearsal. That's  all  I  could  find  out. 


ON  THE  RUN  35 

Say,  what  do  you  think  of  Bradley  any- 
way? Isn't  he  a  pill  in  that  Eagle  out- 
fit? Looks  like  some  sort  of  a  wet  hen." 

But  I  was  thinking,  thinking! 

Then  Monday  afternoon  we  re- 
hearsed again,  and  at  last  Monday 
night  was  the  premiere.  The  whole 
company  was  so  tired  we  could  hardly 
drag  ourselves  to  the  dressing-rooms. 
Miss  Wyncote  had  a  terrible  case  of 
stage-fright  and  was  drinking  strong 
tea.  Mr.  Bradley  said  he  had  taken  a 
pitcher  of  coffee  to  keep  him  awake,  and 
one  of  the  funny  men  said  he  had  a 
frightful  pain  in  his  stomach  and  bor- 
rowed a  whiskey  bottle  of  the  other 
funny  man.  Usually  they  don't  speak. 
Well,  the  music  piped  up,  and  the  per- 
formance had  begun  again.  There  was 
that  dear,  lovely,  expecting  audience 
out  there  behind  the  curtain,  and  me 
looking  at  myself  in  the  looking  glass, 
and  admiring  the  set  of  them  A.  1. 
wings,  and  the  red  on  my  lips.  I  for- 
got I  was  tired,  I  just  knew  I  had  those 


36        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

steps  to  do,  and  that  I  never  knew  be- 
fore how  beautiful  I  was.  Grandcourt 
was  ahead  of  me — Pullman  car  name, 
and  all.  The  stage  manager  passed  us, 
and  as  he  went  he  clapped  her  on  the 
shoulder  above  her  glittering  wings,  and 
said,  "  You're  a  dream,  Mame!  "  and 
then  I  knew  how  she  had  gotten  that 
song. 

Well,  this  is  Tuesday  morning.  The 
performance  last  night  was  done  rotten, 
the  papers  say,  the  company  gone  stale, 
but  the  music  was  good  and  probably 
we  \»ill  do  better  to-night,  so  they'll 
give  us  one  more  chance.  Kind,  aren't 
they?  I  wish  those  critics  had  gone 
through  it  on  tea  and  coffee  and  six 
hours'  sleep  in  three  days.  Well,  I'm 
learning  "  Five  little  Pickaninnies " 
now.  It  is  easy.  I  can  hear  Grandcourt 
hollering  herself  hoarse  over  "  Pierrot, 
Pierrette,  I  love  you  yet,"  in  the  room 
downstairs.  Her  dog's  name  is  Mar- 
maduke  and  it  hasn't  had  a  bite  but  one 
chop  since  yesterday  morning.  Some 


ON  THE  RUN 


37 


v 

of  us  girls  are  saving  up  breakfast  sau- 
sages for  it. 


Admiring  the  set  of  them  A.  1.  wings. 

Feb.  21st. — Can't  write,  am  going  to 
lunch  with  a  man  who  asked  for  an  in- 


38        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

t reduction  last  night.     Molly  is  com- 
ing too. 

Later. — -The  snide  took  us  to  a  75c 
table  d'hote. 

Feb.  25th. — At  Tuesday  rehearsal  I 
sent  a  note  to  Mr.  Orden,  which  read: 
"  Dear  sir — Did  you  write  Pierrot, 
Pierrette,  I  love  you  yet.  Grandcourt 
has  it."  Mr.  Smith  took  it  to  him  while 
the  Black  Bats  were  parading.  He 
said,  Orden  said,  "  Who  in  h—  -  is 
Grandcourt?  "  I  could  see  by  the  way 
he  rushed  around  that  he  never  had 
written  "  Pierrot,  Pierrette  "  in  his  life. 

Then  there  came  the  intermission, 
and  I  walked  over  to  the  piano,  with 
perfect  ease,  stuck  my  gum  under  the 
piano  stool,  picked  the  tune  out  with 
one  finger,  and  began  to  sing: 

"Five  little  Pickaninnies  back  in  Alabam', 
Wish  you  knew  which  is  ma  lamb." 

Gee,  but  it  was  easy!    Mr.  Bradley  and 
a  lot  of  the  rest  crowded  around,  and  I 


ON  THE  RUN  39 

forgot  all  about  trying  to  please  "  Old 
Bill  "  with  it,  but  just  enjoyed  myself, 
and  then  I  tried  a  few  steps. 

"What's  all  this  about?"  yelled 
somebody,  sticking  his  head  into  the 
crowd.  "  Oh,  it's  Higgins,  is  it?  Well, 
you  just  sit  way  back  in  the  auditorium 
until  this  rehearsal  is  over."  Of  course 
I  knew  I  was  going  to  be  fired  and  Mr. 
Orden  pretended  he  didn't  know  me. 
I'm  glad  I  am  not  such  a  "  butt-in  "  as 
Grandcourt,  she  went  right  over  to  the 
stage  manager  and  whispered  in  his 
ear. 

I  sat  there  crying,  and  at  last  the 
chorus  work  was  over,  and  a  lot  of  them 
came  down  and  patted  me  on  the  back. 
It  felt  so  good,  I  couldn't  bear  not  to 
belong  to  them  and  to  "  The  Babes  in 
Woodland."  Lovell  just  called  me  in 
to  her  room  because  someone  she  once 
knew  somewhere  had  sent  her  a  box  of 
candy.  It  must  have  cost  two  or  three 
dollars. 


40        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

Feb.  29th. — To  go  on  with  the  notes 
about  my  life.  They  didn't  fire  me. 
The  next  morning  the  "  old  man  "  sent 
word  for  me  to  know  "  The  Five  Little 
Pickaninnies  "  for  rehearsal.  When  I 
got  there  with  the  other  girls,  Grand- 
court  was  up  singing  "  Pierrot,  Pier- 
rette, I  love  you  yet."  Old  Bill  looked 
around  proudly,  but  nobody  liked  it. 
She  sings  through  her  nose.  I  am  go- 
ing to  give  five  dollars  to  Hart  well  to 
send  home  because  her  mother's  dead. 

March  1st. — Mr.  Bradley  introduced 
me  to  a  young  man  who  travels  for  a 
silver  firm.  Oh,  yes,  about  that  song. 
After  Grandcourt  had  finished  I  got 
my  chance  with  the  Pickaninnies  again, 
so  without  saying  anything  more  to  me, 
they  began  to  plan  my  costume.  "  I'll 
be  hung  if  that  song  ever  gets  on," 
swore  the  stage  manager.  "  It's  no 
place  for  it,  in  a  French  pink  boudoir." 

Mr.  Orden  looked  awful  quiet  as  if  he 
hadn't  heard  and  talked  with  the  owner. 


ON  THE  RUN  41 

But  it  isn't  in  yet,  and  the  2nd  month 
has  come,  and  "  The  Babes "  was  a 
great  success,  after  we'd  got  a  little 
sleep.  Well,  I  suppose  the  owner  is 
making  his  thousands  out  of  it.  I'm 
glad  somebody's  rich. 

March  5th. — The  young  man  who 
travels  for  the  silver  house  took  Lovell 
out  to  supper  instead  of  me.  I  was 
standing  right  there  in  the  wings,  too. 
Men  is  so  unsincere. 

March  6th.— Ain't  it  awful?  I 
haven't  been  asked  to  sing  in  the  Little 
Pickaninnies  yet!  I've  got  an  awful 
cold  in  my  head. 

March  7th. — Had  a  letter  from 
mama,  she  says  I  am  famous  in  Paris, 
Ohio.  Well,  that's  some  comfort! 
There's  so  many  girls  acting  in  Chi- 
cago. 

March  10th. — "  Hullo,  Minnie,"  says 
Miss  Wyncote  to  me  last  night,  "  I'm 


42        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

going  to  sing  The  Little  Pickaninnies 
next  Monday  night,  and  you're  to  stand 
next  me  in  line,  and  do  your  cute  little 
dance."  Say,  you  could  have  knocked 
me  down  with  a  feather!  Of  course  I 
might  of  known  she'd  have  gotten  the 
song.  But  she  can't  dance.  Thank 
Heaven,  I  ain't  been  so  fed  up  on  lob- 
ster and  champagne  that  I  can't  get 
around  pretty  lively  yet. 

March  21st. — I  went  to  lunch  yester- 
day with  a  man  named  Bowsox. 

March  30th. — Well,  the  costume  of 
the  Little  Pickaninny  fitted  me  like  po- 
tato peel.  We  sang  it  last  night.  Say, 
it  was  a  knock-out.  Mr.  Bradley  says 
the  audience  was  tired  of  the  pink 
French  drawing-room,  anyway,  and 
glad  of  a  change.  Audiences  as  a 
whole,  he  says,  are  shifty.  First  Miss 
Wyncote  sang  her  verse  all  through, 
then  us  chorus  joined  in,  and  then  I  out 


ON  THE  RUN  43 


It  was  something  like  the  Dutch  dance,  only  more 
niggery. 


44         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

and  danced — like  a  bird.  It  was  some- 
thing like  the  Dutch  dance,  only  more 
niggery.  Well,  they  clapped  and 
clapped,  and  Miss  Wyncote  swept  on 
and  bowed  and  then  they  clapped 
harder,  and  she  looked  worried,  and 
then  Old  Bill  came  right  up  to  me  him- 
self :  '  You've  got  to  do  that  dance 
over,"  he  says  glum  as  a  man  you  owe 
money  to.  Then  we  sang  the  last 
chorus  verse  over,  and  I  danced  again, 
and  everything  was  lovely,  except  that 
somebody  says  Miss  Wyncote  cried  all 
through  her  powder,  when  she  toddled 
back  to  her  dressing-room.  Of  course  I 
hate  to  make  a  lady  cry.  But  what  was 
she  expecting.  She  isn't  any  Fritzi 
Scheff !  Why,  if  it  wasn't  for  the  Johri- 
nies  who  come  to  see  her  figure  she 
wouldn't  be  prima  donna.  My  voice 
has  six  more  notes  than  hers,  three  be- 
low and  three  above.  And  the  play- 
wright came  up  and  shook  my  hand,  for, 
course,  his  song  goes,  though  he  didn't 
write  the  dance. 


ON  THE  RUN  45 

April. — Mr.  Bowsox  says  I  must 
meet  his  sisters  when  I  go  to  Denver. 
Gee,  that  gave  me  a  start!  Just  think 
of  me  meeting  anybody's  sisters,  and 
then  a  gentleman  like  him.  He  always 
comes  in  a  cab,  and  wears  a  diamond 
scarfpin. 

April. — Grandcourt  is  on  the  end  of 
the  line  in  the  Pickaninny  dance.  Old 
Bill  put  her  there. 

April  4th. — Spring  clothes  is  in  all 
the  windows,  and  I  haven't  a  cent  saved 
up.  Grandcourt  has  a  new  feather  boa. 

April  5th. — Last  night  when  the 
music  started  up  for  my  dance,  you 
could  have  knocked  me  down  with  a 
feather!  I  started  out  and  begun  to 
dance,  and  Grandcourt  stepped  out  and 
danced  right  along  with  me !  Gee,  what 
gall!  I  almost  dropped  dead  in  my 
tracks,  and  it  wasn't  a  solo  dance  any- 
more. And  she  took  the  encore  with 


46         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

me  too.  Gee,  what's  the  use  of  knowing 
what  to  do  -with  your  feet,  when  another 
girl's  got  the  inside  track  with  the 
stage  manager.  Talent  don't  count  in 
this  business!  I'm  that  blue  I  could 
take  something. 

April  6th.— Ain't  it  awful?  I've 
been  on  the  stage  three  months,  and  still 
in  the  chorus.  McCann  says  I'm  too 
ambitious.  Perhaps  I  am,  but  16  a 
week  and  half  baked  sports  ain't  going 
to  attract  me  always.  But  Mr.  Bowsox 
is  a  perfect  gentleman. 

April  7th. — Who  should  I  see  in  the 
orchestra  chairs  last  night,  looking  just 
as  big  and  twice  as  natural  ?  It  was  Jim 
Burns  in  that  new  Tuxedo  of  his,  and 
looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  big  wa- 
termelon in  a  basket  of  prunes.  He  got 
so  excited  when  the  Little  Pickaninnies 
came  on  that  he  drank  three  glasses  of 
ice  water  before  the  boy  could  stop  him. 
I  never  danced  better  in  my  life.  For  I 


ON  THE  RUN  47 

wanted  to  show  Jim  how  far  above  him 
I  was.  Afterwards  he  met  me  at  the 
door. 

"  Hullo,  Jim,"  I  says,  just  like  that. 
"  Where'd  you  drop  from?  " 

"  Paris,"  he  says.  "  There  isn't  much 
doing  in  the  livery  stable  business,  this 
time  o'  year,  so  thought  I'd  come  on  and 
see  how  you're  makin'  it." 

"  Oh,  I'm  makin'  it,"  says  I,  tossing 
my  head. 

"  I'm  going  to  take  you  to  supper," 
says  he.  "  I  know  where  you  can  get  a 
good  beefsteak  and  beer  for— 

"  For  seventy-five  cents,"  says  I.  "I 
know  it.  Why,  I  can  find  my  way  to 
that  caffee  blind-folded.  Come  along, 
little  boy." 

"Cut  that  out,"  says  he.  "Don't 
put  on  none  of  your  stuck-up  airs  with 
me."  And  there  was  Mr.  Bowsox  at 
his  elbow. 

"  Is  this  feller  annoyin'  you  any, 
Miss  Higgins?"  says  he.  "If  he  is, 
just  give  the  word." 


48         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

Jim  turned  on  him  so  quick,  he  took 
out  his  handkerchief  and  blew  his  nose. 
"  No  one's  annoying  me,  Mr.  Bowsox," 
I  said,  liking  the  fun,  for  Grandcourt 
was  passing,  staring  like  a  china  cat. 
'  We  were  just  going  for  a  supper 
at- 

"  My  favorite  place,"  says  he,  "I'm 
going  there  myself."  So  we  three 
started  off,  Jim  clumping  along  on  one 
side  of  me,  and  Mr.  Bowsox  twiddling 
his  cane  on  the  other.  His  cane  has  a 
silver  top. 

When  we  got  there  the  place  was  as 
full  of  people  as  a  corn-popper ;  fellows 
hanging  outside  around  the  door,  and 
waiters  just  humping  along,  dropping 
plates,  and  setting  down  steins  with  a 
jam  you'd  thought  would  break  them. 
Molly  was  there  and  Lovell  and  a  lot  of 
the  other  girls,  and  Mr.  Smith  and 
some  men  and  couples  that  live  in  Chi- 
cago, sittin'  around  staring  at  them. 
Everyone  had  on  her  new  spring  hat, 
and  the  beer  tasted  almost  good.  But 


ON  THE  RUN  49 

I  never  did  like  the  taste  of  the  stuff. 
Molly  says  it's  an  acquired  taste,  and 
that  I'll  learn.  She's  always  cheerful 
about  things,  "  I  suppose  you're  quite 
dippy  over  this  gay  life,"  says  Jim, 
when  we  were  set  down.  '  I  guess  I 
like  horses  better  than  people  anyway." 

"  Interested  in  horses,  are  you,  Mr. 
Burns?"  said  Mr.  Bowsox  in  his  ele- 
gant manner;  "  I  have  a  little  racing 
mare  myself.  She's  a  morning-glory 
and  she  can  traipse  a  mile  in  nothing 
by  lantern  light.  Yesterday  she  just 
dropped  out  of  the  clouds,  nailed  the 
rear  end  taggers  in  four  jumps,  hung 
seven  or  eight  of  the  others  on  the  fence, 
jammed  her  way  through  a  hole  the 
size  of  a  thimble,  caught  the  sooner 
counterfeit  that  was  fizgogging  out  in 
front  at  the  sixteenth,  came  home  with 
a  wet  sail  and  won  the  tapeovitch  by  a 
face!" 

Jim  looked  sulky. 

"  Interested  in  horses,  Mr.  Burns? " 
asked  Mr.  Bowsox. 


50        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

"  No,"  said  Jim,  "  I  ain't.  I  got  half 
interest  in^a  livery  stable!  " 

"  Oh,"  says  Mr.  Bowsox.  Then  he 
began  to  jolly  me,  and  everybody  piped 
up  singing,  *  You're  a  dream  of  a 
peach,  you  are,"  and  I  felt  fine.  Jim 
just  sat  there  like  a  bump  on  a  log,  tak- 
ing a  glass  of  ginger  ale,  now  and  then, 
because  the  preacher  had  got  him  to 
sign  the  pledge  back  in  Paris.  Mr. 
Bowsox  being  a  perfect  gentleman  and 
used  to  city  cafes  didn't  understand 
that,  and  once  or  twice  he  laughed,  be- 
cause Jim  was  wearing  his  white  tie,  all 
tied  wrong.  I  guess  a  girl  doesn't  al- 
ways know  what  to  do.  Anyway,  I 
didn't  know  anybody  thought  anything 
fresh  was  going  on,  till  Jim  says  sud- 
denly to  Mr.  Bowsox,  "  I'll  thank  you 
to  take  your  hand  off  the  lady's  arm, 


sir." 


"  What  business  is  it  of  yours,  I'd 
like  to  know?  "  says  Mr.  Bowsox,  get- 
ting to  his  feet.  Then  there  was  an  aw- 
ful crack  of  plates,  and  Jim  lit  into  him 


ON  THE  RUN 


51 


52        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

like  an  old  stamp-mill,  hitting  down 
from  the  top,  and  I  stud  up  and  put  on 
my  coat.  I  didn't  know  what  else  to  do. 
But  the  waiters  made  a  dash  for  Jim, 
and  that  stirred  me  up,  and  Molly  run 
up  to  me,  and  Mr.  Smith  said,  "  Great! 
There's  a  reporter  present,  Min— 
But  I  didn't  care  about  no  reporters.  I 
just  told  all  the  men  that  Jim  was  my 
brother,  and  he  didn't  mean  any  harm 
— and  I  just  took  his  arm  and  glared 
at  Mr.  Bowsox.  I  knew  it  was  the  only 
way  to  keep  him  from  being  arrested. 
I  didn't  want  poor  old  Jim  arrested,  so 
I  said  to  everybody,  ;<  It  was  that 
man's  fault,"  and  then  we  went  out 
together.  "Your  brother!  Bosh! 
Min,  don't  you  want  to  get  into 
the  limelight?"  I  heard  Mr.  Smith 
say. 

Well,  Jim  and  I  went  out  into  the 
night  together,  and  he  patted  my  hand 
and  said  I  was  true  Peruvian.  And  we 
took  a  long  walk,  and  he  told  me  that 
he  was  in  love  with  me.  He  said  I  was 


ON  THE  RUN  53 

the  most  beautiful  girl  he  had  ever  seen, 
that  my  face  was  like  an  angel's,  and 
he  would  rather  die  than  see  me  married 
to  someone  else,  especially  a  cad  who 
ran  fake  racing  horses,  which  were 
probably  doped. 

"  But  Mr.  Bowsox  doesn't  want  to 
trot  me  up  to  the  wedding  counter,"  I 
said  to  Jim.  "  He  never  told  me  he 
did.  You  don't  understand  city  life 
any  more  than  a  lob  or  a  dead  one. 


"But  I  want  to  marry  you,  Min," 
says  he.  "  I'm  going  to  make  money, 
and  I  want  to  take  you  back  to 
Paris." 

"  Back  to "  says  I.  "  Gee,  but  I 

—mama  and  all  I'd  kind  of  like  it,"  and 
I  let  my  head  lean  on  his  shoulder  for 
just  a  little  rest.  I  knew  he  would 
take  good  care  of  me,  and  I  was  that 
tired  out. 

"  Can't  you  love  me,  a  little,  Min? " 
he  asks,  standing  very  still,  and  his 
voice  shaking. 


54        DIARY  OP  A  SHOW-GIRL 

"  No,  I  can't,"  I  said,  starting  on 
home.  "  It  would  be  madness  to  give 
up  my  career." 

And  of  course  after  that  he  didn't 
urge  no  more. 


Ill 

THE   SCRIMMAGE 

AUGUST  2nd,  190 — . 

New  York  is  good  enough  for  me! 
We  open  here  on  September  5th,  and 
they've  put  us  on  half  pay  till  rehearsals 
begin.  Hart  well,  Molly  and  me  are  liv- 
ing in  a  little  two  by  four,  with  one  bed, 
and  cooking  our  meals  on  a  dinky  oil 
stove  that  smokes,  with  one  burner, 
where  the  coffee  slops  over  and  the  rice 
boils  all  over  everything.  Hartwell  is 
so  skinny  she'll  look  like  a  freak  in  that 
Bat  costume.  If  they  don't  hurry  up 
there  won't  be  enough  of  us  three  left 
to  make  one  well  fed  Butterfly  even  if 
we're  wrapped  in  cotton  like  one  of 
them  cocoons.  Ain't  it  awful! 

Gee,  but  it's  fine  to  be  back  in  little 
old  New  York  and  walk  up  Broadway 

55 


56        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

at  night  and  see  them  lovely  lighted 
champagne  signs  up  on  42nd  Street. 
It's  so  hot  we  can't  stay  in  our  room, 
Molly  calls  it  The  Oven,  any  more  than 
we  can  help,  so  these  nights  we  stay  out 
all  we  can.  Molly  says  once  she  had  a 
great  ambition — sounds  foolish  now — 
she  wanted  to  be  lady  demonstrator  for 
Kaulberg's  soups.  She  says  of  course 
she  never  mentioned  it  to  'em,  but  she 
lived  over  in  Hoboken  next  to  the  soup 
factory  and  she  hoped  some  of  them 
would  seek  her  out  and  offer  her  the 
job.  She  did  admire  the  way  they  kept 
the  factory  clean,  so  much.  Why,  she 
says,  you  could  eat  off  of  every  floor, 
except  where  they  kept  the  machinery 
next  to  the  vats,  and  they  didn't  put 
anything  in  but  real  meats.  Why,  she's 
a  regular  advertisement  for  Kaulberg's 
soups  now,  but  they  didn't  seek  her  out, 
and  here  she  is  a  chorus  girl.  Kaulberg 
missed  a  lot.  I  can  just  hear  her  up  in 
Fliegal  and  Swooper's  Groceries  De- 
partment saying  in  that  smooth  voice 


THE  SCRIMMAGE  57 

to  every  lady  who  passed,  "  Kaulberg's 
soups,  Madam;  won't  you  try  a  sam- 
ple? It's  all  that  it's  cracked  up  to  be. 
I  know,  for  I  live  in  Hoboken.  I  can 
highly  recommend  Kaulberg's  soups — 
highly  nutritious.  Why,  I've  lived  on 
Kaulberg's  soups  for  weeks  at  a  time. 
Won't  you  try  a  package,  Madam? " 
We're  living  pretty  near  on  Kaulberg's 
soups  now.  Soda-pop  is  cheap  too. 

August  15th. — Mr.  Bowsox  called 
last  night.  He  looked  so  grand  in  a 
new  pale  gray  suit  and  of  course  he  had 
a  lot  of  horse-talk.  I  entertained  him 
on  the  front  steps.  I  feel  sorry  for 
poor  old  Jim  every  time  I  see  Mr.  Bow- 
sox. I  don't  like  smarties.  I  don't  take 
much  stock  any  more  either  in  all  that 
guff  about  his  sisters.  If  they  were 
right  in  New  York,  he  wouldn't  intro- 
duce them  to  me — that's  the  sort  of 
hunch  I've  got.  He  says  one  of  them 
has  hair  the  color  of  mine.  Sometimes 
I  don't  believe  he's  got  any  sisters.  I'm 


58        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

giving  him  a  big  fill  now-a-days  about 
all  my  brothers,  Jim  being  the  smallest. 

August  17th. — He  gave  Molly  and 
me  a  grand  time  last  night.  He  took 
us  to  Coney  and  wasn't  any  pincher. 
He  gave  us  dinner  in  an  open-air 
joint,  and  all  the  beer  we  wanted. 
I  didn't  want  much.  Then  we  went  to 
Dreamland  and  had  our  fortunes  told 
and  Molly  laughed  so  much  a  lot  of 
freshies  tried  to  talk  to  us.  I  had  on 
a  new  pale  green  veil  thrown  back  off 
my  hat.  We  did  everything  there  was 
to  do,  and  then  we  went  over  to  the 
other  place  and  bumped  the  bumps.  I 
came  down  slipping  and  sliding  down 
the  bumps  so,  I  laughed  till  I  almost 
died.  And  Molly  went  off  with  a  friend 
of  hers.  Mr.  Bowsox  asked  me  would 
I  dance  one  of  those  "  sweet  Strauss 
waltzes,"  and  I  straightened  up  my  hat 
and  we  went  over  to  the  Pavilion  and 
danced  and  danced  and  danced.  I 
didn't  look  at  anyone  else  though,  for  I 


THE  SCRIMMAGE  59 

wanted  Mr.  Bowsox  to  know  I  was  a 
real  lady.  We  came  home  on  the  last 
boat  and  sang  "  Farewell,  my  lady  love, 
good-bye."  If  we  can  get  Molly's 
friend  to  take  us  out  to  dinner  to-mor- 
row night,  then  we'll  have  saved  one 
dollar  to  buy  eggs  with.  For,  if  Mr. 
Bowsox  hadn't  come  to-night,  we  would 
have  spent : 

10  cents  for  rice 

10  cents  for  kerosene 

10  cents  for  butter 

5  cents  for  tea 

3  cents  for  bread 

15  cents  for  ice  cream 

53  cents  in  all,  and 

about  the  same  to-morrow  night.  I'm 
not  squealing  about  the  3  cts. 

August  20th. — Rehearsals  began  to- 
day. '  The  Babes  "  need  brushing  up 
some,  but  there  are  so  many  of  us  good 
looking  girls  in  the  chorus.  A  reporter 
says  it's  sure  to  be  a  go.  If  it  is,  that 


60         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

means  two  or  three  months  of  Broad- 
way for  me,  and  $16  a  week.  Miss 
Wyncote  came  on  the  surface  car  and 
Grandcourt  came  in  an  automobile. 
That  made  everybody  pity  Miss  Wyn- 
cote. But  I  guess  her  not  coming  in  a 
bubble,  too,  was  just  an  accident.  Some- 
times I  think  she's  a  pretty  good  fellow ; 
she  asked  me  to-day  to  lend  her  my  side 
comb,  and  she  told  me  I  was  looking 
fine.  Marmaduke  was  sitting  up  in  the 
automobile,  in  the  front  seat,  with  a  new 
saddle  blanket  on.  He  barked  when  I 
tried  to  pet  him.  I  guess  he's  forgotten 
those  breakfast  sausages  I  went  with- 
out, all  for  his  sake — in  Chicago.  I 
danced  so  much  to-day  I'd  sleep  if  they 
gave  me  the  seventh  part  of  a  kitchen 
table  for  a  bed — anywhere — in  the  St. 
Regis. 

August  22nd. — Mr.  Smith  was  per- 
fectly killing  to-day.  His  voice  just 
boomed  out  like  a  fog-horn,  more  than 
usual,  and  Old  Bill  stopped  the  chorus. 


THE  SCRIMMAGE  61 

"  Stop,"  he  says,  waving  his  flipper. 
"  Those  bassos  are  making  too  much 
noise.  Now — all  together,  softly — 
softly." 

I  guess  Mr.  Smith  can't  help  it — he  is 
so  big  and  he's  got  such  a  big  mouth  like 
a  great  big  cat-fish,  he  just  boomed  out 
again.  "  I  would  I  were  on  fairy  flow- 
errs.  Asleep  amidst  those  May-time 
bow-errs." 

"Stop,  Smith!  Stop!"  says  Old 
Bill,  flipper  up.  Then  they  tried  it 
again,  and  Mr.  Smith  just  stepped  back 
into  the  wings  and  didn't  sing  at  all. 
But  just  the  same  Old  Bill  yelled  out, 
"  Stop  that  eternal  callyope  back  of 
your  teeth,  Smith — you  drowned  out 
the  so-pranos."  And  Mr.  Smith  hadn't 
sung  at  all.  Everybody  laffed — except 
Old  Bill. 

August  23rd. — A  cat  stole  10  c. 
worth  of  Hamburg  steak  we  had  out  on 
the  fire  escape.  Hartwell  says  this  high 
life  is  killing  her. 


62         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

Aug.  24th. — They  have  changed  our 
costumes  for  that  last  chorus  in  the  last 
act  about—  '  There  are  plenty  of 
peaches  on  Fifth  Ave-e-noo,  but  never 
a  lemon  there."  My  skirts  are  in  silk 
ruffles  to  the  knee,  with  sandals  and  pale 
pink  hose.  On  my  head  is  a  big  pink 
lace  hat  as  big  as  the  shade  on  a  Wal- 
dorf-Astoria piano  lamp.  My  hair  is 
ruffled  up  into  a  curly  pump-a-dore 
about  a  foot  high,  back  on  this  is  placed 
the  lamp — hat  I  mean,  with  lace  and 
flowers  falling  off  all  around  the  edges. 
Up  over  my  left  ear  is  a  great  bunch  of 
violets  and  roses  like  a  Broadway  flower 
store,  and  over  my  right  ear,  a  bunch  of 
pink  ribbons  and  loops,  yards  of  it,  like 
a  bargain  counter  at  Altman's.  And 
there's  a  sash  ribbon  tied  under  my 
chin.  All  around  the  top  of  my  low-neck 
waist — very  decolettee,  is  bunches  of 
grapes  in  pearls,  and  lace  ding-bats  and 
I  carry  a  pale  pink  parasol  covered  with 
roses  and  violets.  It  ought  to  take  the 
Johnnies,  Molly  says.  I  look  lovely  in 


THE  SCRIMMAGE  63 

it.  But  what  does  that  matter?  Gee, 
it's  Miss  Wyncote's  song,  and  Grand- 
court's  got  a  hat  bigger  than  mine! 
She  has  to  take  it  off  to  get  out  of  the 
dressing-room  door.  My  only  hope  of 
getting  one  of  those  newspaper  notices 
is  when  I  dance  my  dance  in  "  The  Lit- 
tle Pickaninnies  in  Old  Alabam'." 
Then  I'll  get  it  sure.  Thanks  be  to 
Glory,  it's  going  on  and  I'm  to  dance  it 
on  the  opening  night,  September  fifth. 
Right  here  on  dear  old  Broadway  with 
the  house  packed  and  everything  hum- 
ming and  the  gallery  keeping  time  with 
its  feet. 

August  25th. — I  had  a  letter  from 
Paris,  Ohio,  to-day.  It  was  from 
mama.  She  says  she's  sick.  I  had  to 
cry.  How  can  I  go  to  Paris,  Ohio, 
right  now?  Nobody  would  lend  me  the 
money,  and  besides,  how  could  I  leave 
before  that  opening  night?  Why,  it's 
my  chance.  It's  what  I've  worked  for, 
and  starved  for  and  dreamed  about  all 


64         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

the  month,  and  that  new  costume  and 
all.  I  wrote  mama  I  couldn't  come.  I 
told  her  it  was  the  climax  of  my  career. 
Then  I  cried.  I  am  afraid  she's  awful 
sick.  I'm  still  crying.  I've  got  to  stop. 
Molly  says  so.  She  says  I  must  learn  to 
be  practical,  and  not  let  my  eyes  get 
blood-shot.  What  could  I  do,  if  I  was 
there?  I'm  going  to  write  to  Jim 
Burns.  I'm  going  to  ask  him  to  do  all 
he  can.  Then  I  won't  answer  his  letter. 
That  will  keep  my  conscience  clear.  I 
just  mustn't  give  him  false  hopes. 
What  could  I  do  with  anybody's  false 
hopes  now?  I'm  too  busy. 

August  26th. — Hartwell  says  her 
mother  died  of  new-monia. 

August  27th. — I  don't  see  why 
Grandcourt  hates  me  so.  I've  never 
done  a  thing  to  her — not  that  I  haven't 
wanted  to.  I  wonder  how  she  found 
that  out.  Our  hair's  the  same  color,  and 
we're  the  same  height,  and  we  both  look 


THE  SCRIMMAGE  65 

like  Miss  Wyncote,  tho'  we  haven't  so 
much  figure.  In  that  song  in  the  last 
act  all  of  us  wears  colors  but  Miss 
Wyncote,  and  she  wears  all  white.  I 
wish  I  could  wear  all  white.  I  heard 
Grandcourt  telling  Lovell  she  was  go- 
ing to  rise  above  the  chorus.soon;  I  won- 
der how — perhaps  on  wings. 

August  28th. — We  was  dressing  for 
the  last  act  in  our  dressing-room  at  the 
theater.  We  had  to  practice  them  new 
costumes. 

"  How  do  you  do?  "  says  Grandcourt 
to  me,  just  like  that,  with  a  rising  voice, 
as  if  she  didn't  expect  to  be  answered, 
and  hated  to  have  to  speak. 

"  How  —  do  —  you  —  dooo?  "  I  an- 
swered, going  up  still  higher.  Then  I 
dabbed  my  nose  indifferent-like. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  you're  going 
to  be  a  regular  scream,"  she  says,  turn- 
ing herself  around  to  look  at  her  back. 
"  Reminds  me  of  a  grasshopper  with 
about  four  joints  in  each  leg." 


66         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

"  Indeed^'  says  I,  still  chewing  my 
gum,  "  are  you  referring  to  what  you're 
looking  at  in  the  glass?  " 

"Hardly,  child,"  says  she,  "as  I 
can't  see  you  from  where  I'm  stand- 
ing." 

"  Well,  I'd  rather  look  like  a  grass- 
hopper than  a  frog,"  I  says,  flaring  up; 
"  your  eyes  always  did  make  me  think 
of- 

"  Shut  up,  dearie,"  says  she.  "  If 
you  sass  me  any,  I'll  tell  Old  Bill.  He 
says  you're  too  prominent  in  this  show 
already.  We  don't  want  any  angel- 
faced  kids  that  hasn't  got  the  Paris- 
green  rubbed  off  yet." 

"Well,  I'd  rather  have  that  than 
some  kinds  of  red,"  I  says,  and  with 
that  the  vixen  up  and  threw  a  box  of 
powder  all  over  me — just  like  that.  It 
took  me  more  than  five  minutes  to  brush 
it  off. 

6  You  ought  to  be  polite  to  me,"  says 
Grandcourt  as  she  marches  off,  "  for 
I'm  Miss  Wyncote's  understudy,  I 


THE  SCRIMMAGE 


67 


68        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

am."  And  she  marched  off  with  that 
poor  little  Marmaduke  under  her  arm, 
barking  as  if  he'd  bust  himself.  Then 
Old  Bill  scolded  me  for  being  late  to 
the  wings. 

"Understudy!"  I  lets  on  quiet  to 
myself.  "Understudy!  What's  that? 
She  couldn't  do  the  prima  donna  part, 
but  I  bet  I  could.  I  can  do  any- 
thing." 

So  last  night  after  the  other  girls 
were  asleep,  I  just  stood  up  before  our 
mirror  in  "  The  Oven  "  there  with  the 
windows  wide  open,  and  the  cats  squall- 
ing in  the  alley,  and  just  went  through 
Wyncote's  part  from  start  to  finish. 
And  sometimes  I'd  have  to  stop  quite  a 
while  to  remember,  but  of  course  I  knew 
that  Pickaninny  song  and  the  "  New 
York  Peaches,"  and  I  enjoyed  myself 
so  much,  going  all  over  it,  and  playing 
I  was  leading  lady  there,  in  my  cheese- 
cloth wrapper,  that  I  didn't  mind  when 
Molly  woke  up  and  threw  shoes  at  me 
till  I  put  out  the  light.  . 


THE  SCRIMMAGE  69 

Aug.  28th. — I  wonder  how  mama  is 
— still  no  letter  from  Jim.  I  guess  their 
post-office  is  burned  down. 


Playing  I  was  leading  lady. 

August  29th. — First  the  curtain 
comes  up  on  a  scene  with  water  in  the 
background,  then  a  bell  chimes  in  the 
forest  twice,  then  in  comes  the  merry- 
merry  dancing  as  butterflies,  then  the 


70        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

hero  and  the  funny  man  do  a  turn,  and 
the  King  of  Eagles  does  his  song,  and 
there's  a  scene  with  the  hero  and  the 
King,  and  the  merry -merry  comes  back, 
and  then  enter  Miss  Wyncote  in  her 
latest  Osborn  dress  and  raising  her 
parasol,  cries,  "  Ah,  I  am  lost,  am  lost." 
Why,  I  could  do  her  part  just  like  fall- 
ing off  a  fire  escape  on  to  a  feather  bed. 

September  2nd. — Of  course  Grand- 
court  won't  ever  get  a  chance  to  be  the 
understudy.  But  why  didn't  they  give 
me  the  chance?  Isn't  my  hair  just  as 
good,  don't  I  look  just  as  much  like 
Miss  Wyncote  as  she  does?  But  what's 
the  use?  Old  Bill  thinks  I'm  sassy. 
I've  been  to  supper  with  a  man  who 
knows  George  Cohan. 

September  7th. — Well,  let  me  get  my 
breath.  I've  been  moving  all  the  morn- 
ing, and  I've  got  an  engagement  for 
lunch — but  I  must  add  to  these  notes. 
Well,  opening  night  came  at  last. 


THE  SCRIMMAGE  71 

There  we  were,  all  ready,  waiting  in  the 
dressing-room  for  our  calls.  Marma- 
duke  was  sleeping  in  his  basket  just 
where  he  could  nip  our  ankles  as  we 
went  past. 

"  See  who's  here!"  said  Molly,  and 
there  was  Mr.  Bowsox,  looking  in  at  the 
door,  but  Old  Bill  caught  on  and  sent 
him  up. 

"  'M  going  out  in  Mr.  Brown's  mo- 
tah,"  said  Lovell  next  to  me;  "  a  spin 
is  as  good  as  a  smile!"  Nobody 
laughed,  we  were  too  intense. 

"  Gawd,  Maime,"  said  somebody  else, 
''there's  that  ribbon  untied  again; 
who's  got  a  pin?  " 

"  Well,  if  Mr.  Burton  did  say  that, 
after  all  those — I've  got  my  opinion  of 
him!" 

"  Real  silk  chiffon  with  five  yards  of 
lace  "  "  I  never  said  such  a  thing  " 
"  he's  off  "— "  well,  I'll  be  roasted  to  the 
size  of  a>" — "  keep  cool,  can't  you,  don't 
come  so  near  "  "  as  if  I  couldn't  tell  a 
gentleman  when  I  saw  one  " — "  I  knew 


72        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

what  sJi$  wanted  quick  enough " — 
"  Sixth  Ave.  restaurant,  holy  smoke  " 
— "  who  said  pony  "  — "  oh,  what  a 
headache  I've  got  "  — "  ain't  it  awful, 
Maime "  "go  home  in  a  cab " 
"  where  is  that  woman?  "  You  see  all 
of  them  just  loved  their  art  and  was  so 
anxious  to  get  on  the  stage  they  was 
just  as  nervous  as  pop-corn  on  a  hot 
stove. 

Then  at  last  the  call  come,  and  us 
merry-merry  trooped  in.  My,  what  a 
house,  packed  from  gallery  to  the  boxes, 
and  I  felt  all  eyes  fastened  upon  me. 
I  dance  much  better,  of  course,  than 
when  I  first  started  on  my  stage  career. 
And  they  even  clapped  that  first 
chorus.  Of  course  I  didn't  tell  the  re- 
porters, but  I  knew  it  was  because  there 
were  so  many  fellows  in  the  front  rows 
who  knew  us  girls.  One  girl  winked 
and  said,  "  Hullo,  Charlie!  " 

Then  the  rest  of  the  thing  went  on, 
just  as  it  always  had  night  after  night 
for  months,  and  Mr.  Bradley  went 


THE  SCRIMMAGE  73 

through  his  three  lines  all  right,  but  no- 
body laughed.  I  guess  Chicago  is  easy 
pleased. 

I  was  so  excited  when  it  came  time 
for  "  The  Pickaninnies  in  Old  Ala- 
bam'  "  I  could  hardly  get  into  the  rig. 
And  in  the  wings  stood  Miss  Wyncote. 

"  Feel  my  hand,"  says  she,  'I'm 
scared  to  death,"  and  her  hand  was  like 
ice.  But  she  strutted  on  and  got  her 
note  all  right.  Then  I  danced,  and  I 
got  encored,  four  times.  Old  Bill 
wouldn't  let  me  go  out  the  fifth  time 
and  the  owner  patted  me  on  the  head — 
afterward. 

"  We've  got  a  great  little  dancer 
here,"  says  he. 

"  Can't  I  be  the  understudy?"  says 
I,  quick — like  that. 

"  Grandcourt  is  Understudy," 
growled  Old  Bill,  and  the  owner  just 
laughed. 

I  was  that  depressed  in  the  dressing- 
room  I  could  hardly  keep  from  boo- 
hooing  right  out  before  all  those  ladies ; 


74         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

some  of  them  were  talking  very  grand 
about  Sherry's  and  Delmonico's  and 
Rector's,  already,  but  my  dance  was 
over,  and  even  if  I  did  do  well,  what  do 
I  get  out  of  it,  thinks  I — just  18  a  week 
—and  hard  work — and  mama's  sick, 
and  Paris,  Ohio,  is  such  a  long  way  off. 
Not  a  letter  from  Jim  Burns  either. 
Men  are  so  unsincere. 

Then  it  was  time  for  the  merry-merry 
in  Act  III,  and  then  we  got  dressed  for 
the  "  New  York  Peaches "  song.  I 
was  scared.  I  didn't  think  that  audi- 
ence out  there  had  taken  to  the  pink 
boudoir  and  all  the  heroes  and  Eagles 
and  Pickaninnies  and  things  one  bit. 
Perhaps  "The  Babes"  wouldn't  last 
any  longer  after  to-night  anyway;  per- 
haps The  Babes  would  just  turn  up  its 
toes  right  here,  then  you  could  have 
knocked  me  down  with  a  feather!  I 
looked  up  and  there  was  Grandcourt 
getting  into  an  all-white  costume  for 
that  song,  and  every  bit  of  it,  inch  for 
inch  like  Miss  Wyncote's. 


THE  SCRIMMAGE  75 

Everyone  in  the  dressing-room  got 
as  quiet  as  if  one  of  those  pins  you've 
heard  about  was  going  to  drop. 

What  a  scheme  to  get  attention  to 
herself ,  but  how  dared  she  ?  She  smiled 
just  as  usual,  sidling  out  of  the  door 
with  her  hat  in  her  hand  because  it  was 
so  big.  Then  she  put  it  on  and  there 
was  Miss  Wyncote  all  in  white  in  the 
wings.  She  just  blazed.  She  rushed  at 
Grandcourt  and  shook  her  so  her  teeth 
clicked. 

"  You  impudent,  horrid,  impudent, 
disgusting,  impudent,"  she  screams; 
"  how  dare  you!  "  And  Old  Bill  came 
rushing  up:  "For  Gawd's  sake,  Miss 
Wyncote,"  he  says,  "it's  almost  time 
for  you  to  go  on.  You've  got  a  lot  of 
lines — keep  cool,  keep  cool." 

"  It's  your  fault,  you  horrid,  impu- 
dent, horrid,  impudent "  she  began 

again  at  him,  and  then  she  began  to 
laugh.  "  Do  you  think  I'll  go  on  in  the 
same  gown  as  a  chorus  girl? "  she  asks 
in  a  grand  tone.  Then  she  begins  to 


76 


DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 


cry,  and  had  hysterics,  and  somebody 
led  her  to  her  dressing-room,  and  Old 
Bill  pulls  his  hair  and  grinds  his  teeth. 


"  You  impudent,  horrid,  impudent,  disgusting, 
impudent — " 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  says  at  last  with  a  grin, 
to  Grandcourt,  "  you  can  go  on — you're 
her  understudy,  now's  your  chance." 
Grandcourt    straightened    up    and 


THE  SCRIMMAGE  77 

smiled  at  him,  then  she  draws  away 
from  us,  and  smiles  proudly  as  if  she 
was  already  a  star,  and  takes  a  step 
toward  the  stage,  then  she  keels  over  in 
a  dead  faint — from  excitement. 

Old  Bill  was  frantic  and  we  was  all 
scared  to  death,  the  star  came  off,  and 
says,  "My  Gawd!  what's  the  matter, 
are  you  all  dead?  " 

"  No,"  says  I,  "  not  dead,  but  sleep- 
ing." 

"  Perhaps  you  can  go  on,"  says  Old 
Bill  to  me,  sarcastically. 

"  Oh,  very  well!  "  says  I,  tossing  my 
chin  in  the  air,  and  making  for  the 
stage.  I  thought  of  Fritzi  Scheff,  I 
thought  of  all  the  others  and  knew  I 
was  one  of  them! 

And  there  I  was  singing  "  There's 
many  a  peach  on  Fifth  Avenoo,  but 
never  a  lemon  there." 

I  just  flew  at  the  song.  I  choked  it, 
I  bamboozled  it,  I  patted  it,  I  pulled  it 
around,  I  threw  it  at  them.  I  knew  I 
bad  to  act,  J  acted  like  Fifth  Avenue, 


78         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

I  acted  like  14th  Street,  I  acted  like  a 
peach,  I  acted  like  a  lemon — and  the 
house  rose  at  me.  Where  is  Fritzi  Scheff 
now?  I  just  had  to  go  on  again — they 
kept  calling  for  me,  and  reporters  was 
at  the  stage  entrance  asking  what  my 
name  was.  I  wasn't  even  billed.  But 
thank  heaven  for  that  practice  night  in 
the  Oven,  in  my  cheese-cloth  wrapper. 
For  Miss  Wyncote  had  to  have  a  doc- 
tor, and  Grandcourt  watched  me  sulky 
from  the  wings  in  her  white  dress  that 
the  audience  hadn't  seen,  and  I  went 
right  on  with  the  part.  Then  the  cur- 
tain went  down,  and  everyone  crowded 
around  me,  and  the  owner  says, 
'  You're  the  hit  of  the  piece — you've 
saved  the  show.  To-morrow  your  name 
goes  on  the  bills."  And  the  star  says, 
"  Bully  fcr  you,  Higgins,"  and  Mr. 
Smith  says,  "  I  suppose  you  won't 
speak  to  me  now."  Then  a  boy  came 
with  a  telegram,  and  I  tore  it  open  right 
there,  and  it  said:  "  Your  mother  is  all 
right — Jim."  Then  I  began  to  laugh 


THE  SCRIMMAGE  79 


I  just  flew  at  the  song.    I  choked  it,  I  bamboozled  it. 


80 


DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 


and  cry,  too,  and  Molly  got  me  away. 
I  went  in  to  Miss  Wyncote  and  says, 


They  was  fine  looking — one  of  them  had  on  the 
gladdest  kind  of  an  evening  shell. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,  really,"  and  she 
kissed  me  and  says,  "  It  wasn't  your 
fault,  child."  She's  such  a  good  fellow 
after  all. 


THE  SCRIMMAGE  81 

Then  two  men,  whom  Molly  knew, 
wanted  to  be  introduced.  They  was 
fine  looking.  One  of  them  had  on  the 
gladdest  kind  of  an  evening  shell. 
"  Where  will  you  have  supper,  Miss 
Higgins?  "  says  he. 

"  Oh,  Sherry's,"  says  I  with  my  nose 
in  the  air,  because  I  was  kidding. 

But  we  got  into  his  automobile  and 
would  anyone  believe  it, — we  went  to 
Sherry's!  Honest!  It  seems  a  very 
quiet  sort  of  slow  place.  Not  much 
doing. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  I'm  used  to 
this,"  says  I,  as  the  champagne  was 
brought  on.  "  But  I've  been  a  chorus 
girl  ever  since  last  February,  and  this 
is  the  first  time  I've  seen  anything  set 
before  me  that  looked  any  little  bit  like 
lobster.  I'm  more  used  to  Hamburg 
steak.  And  as  for  those  silly  bubbles," 
says  I,  "  cut  it  out  for  me.  I'm  going 
to  have  my  mother  here  next  week,  and 
I'm  not  used  to  it." 


IV 

BUCKING   THE   LINE 

SEPTEMBER  14th. — Well,  here  I  am, 
living  in  a  grand  new  a-partment  on  the 
West  Side.  Gee,  how  many  babies  they 
is  out  here.  I  fall  over  their  buggies  in 
the  hall  every  time  I  come  home  at 
night.  Molly  and  Hartwell  and  Lovell 
and  me  has  it  together.  There  are  three 
rooms  and  a  bath  in  this  a-partment, 
and  the  name  of  the  house  is  the  "  Vio- 
let." We  pay  forty  dollars  a  month 
rent,  and  the  gas-stove  goes  with  the 
a-partment.  There's  a  window  in  each 
of  the  rooms,  and  Hartwell  sleeps  on  a 
couch  in  our  kitchen,  on  the  side  where 
the  dumb  waiter  is,  Lovell  wouldn't. 
She  said  she'd  rather  buy  boards  from 
a  carpenter,  he  wouldn't  charge  much, 
and  put  them  across  the  bath-tub  and 


BUCKING  THE  LINE  83 

sleep  on  that.  But  we  wouldn't  let  her. 
She  tried  it  one  night.  It  seemed  so  un- 
romantic  to  have  Lovell  sleeping  on  a 
bath-tub,  talking  about  "  You  may 
meet  me  in  the  conserv'tory,  Ferdi- 
nand," in  her  sleep,  with  all  her  Marie 
Corelli  books  on  the  shelf  above  her 
head.  I  do  like  a  good  comfortable 
bed,  like  I've  got  now.  It  makes  a  girl 
feel  real  independent  again.  It  helps 
her  career.  Of  course  after  my  great 
success  they  raised  my  divvy,  so  now  I 
get  $20  per.  My,  how  I  did  grab  those 
newspapers  the  next  morning.  The 
"  Sun  "  said  a  few  dignified  joshes  and 
then  called  me  "an  unknown  chorus 
girl."  Gee,  and  that's  fame!  But  it 
said  it  guessed  the  show  "  would  draw 
the  usual  Broadway  crowd."  The  re- 
porter on  the  '  Telegram  "  —Molly 
says  I  must  call  'em  dramatic  criticks — 
well,  his  name  is  Rosenfeldt  and  he 
knows  Miss  Wyncote,  and  he  said  the 
piece  "  went  as  well  as  could  be  ex- 
pected after  her  unfortunate  disposi- 


84        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

tion "  (it*  was  a  misprint,  I  guess) 
"  but  up  to  that  point  '  The  Babes  in 
Woodland  '  was  a  crashing  big  success, 
one  of  the  hits  of  a  season,  in  which  suc- 
cessful musical  comedies  had  been  more 
than  usually  successful";  and  then  he 
said,  "  The  chorus  girl  named  Higgins 
certainly  made  good  in  the  '  New  York 
Peaches.' '  I  bought  five  copies  of  that 
and  sent  it  to  Paris,  Ohio.  But  then  I 
read  another  one,  and  bought  six  of  it, 
tho'  I  was  dead  broke,  because  that 
critick  said,  "  Here  we  have  a  new  sen- 
sation— a  chorus  girl  who  seems  to 
know  how  to  act.  Her  voice  is  good  as 
well  as  her  dancing,  and  wre  prophecy 
before  many  years  that  she  will  be 
growing  star-size,"  but  the  rest  of  them 
just  said  my  name  was  Higgins. 

Every  day  I'm  expecting  a  manager 
to  seek  me  out  to  ask  me  will  I  star. 
Then  we  moved  from  "  The  Oven  "  to 
"  The  Violet."  Hartwell  said  we  might 
just  as  well  move  in  a  cab,  as  it 
wouldn't  cost  any  more  than  an  express 


BUCKING'  THE  LINE  85 

wagon.  So  we  got  a  two-seated  hack, 
and  carried  our  things  down  stairs. 
The  cat  was  on  the  fire  escape,  looking 
in,  so  we  left  her  what  she  had  left  us  of 
our  Hamburg  steak.  Hart  well  carried 
the  oil-stove  and  a  paper  bag  of  pota- 
toes and  one  end  of  her  trunk,  and  I 
carried  the  other  end  and  my  winter 
cloak  under  one  arm,  and  a  bunch  of 
newspapers  and  a  picture  of  our  star, 
he  gave  me  with  his  name  signed,  and 
two  bottles,  and  a  package  of  jelly  pud- 
dings, and  a  fellow  put  his  head  out  of  a 
door,  and  called  out,  "Going,  girls?" 
and  Molly  says,  "  Sorry,  but  we  must 
leave  you — we've  got  a  raise," 

"  Oh,  must  you  go?  "  says  he. 

"  Since  you  feel  so  bad,"  I  sang  out, 
over  my  shoulder,  "  you  might  as  well 
pitch  in  and  help,  you'll  never  have  an- 
other chance,"  and  he  did.  So  we 
moved  that  day,  and  here  at  "  the  Vio- 
let "  it  is  cooler.  Mama  says  she'll 
come  just  as  soon  as  she's  sure  we  have 
room  for  her,  but  I  told  her  about  the 


86         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

bath-tub^bf  course  just  as  a  josh,  but  it 
scared  her  out.  Well,  the  next  day  Miss 
Wyncote  was  all  recovered,  looking 
very  pale,  and  very  dignified,  and  could 
do  her  part,  only  they  kept  me  on  to 
jolly  up  things  in  "  The  Peaches,"  so  I 
act  in  it  every  night,  and  I'm  the  under- 
study instead  of  Grandcourt,  and  she 
gave  up  her  white  dress,  but  she  comes 
out  and  dances  with  me  in  "  The  Pick- 
aninnies." Gee,  but  I'm  glad  I  ain't 
her  gall.  A  weekly  paper  came  out  and 
said  the  whole  show  was  a  shine  except 
Minnie  Higgins,  who  acts  in  "  The 
Peaches,"  but  no  one  in  our  show  men- 
tions that  ar-tickle — at  all. 

September  16th. — Mr.  Barton  Ford- 
ham  Jones — he's  the  one  who  took  me 
to  Sherry's — says  I've  got  real  brains. 
I  said  I  wish  he'd  pass  the  word  along 
to  the  managers. 

September  17th. — He  laughs  at  ev- 
erything I  say. 


BUCKING  THE  LINE  87 

September  18th. — He  was  in  that 
same  seat  again  last  night. 

September  19th. — Mr.  Bowsox  took 
me  to  supper  last  night.  "  Now,  Mr. 
Bowsox,"  says  I,  "  I've  known  you  four 
or  five  months,  and  you're  always  talk- 
ing about  introducing  me  to  your  sis- 
ters. Trot  'em  out,"  I  says.  "  Trot 
'em  out,  or  stop  the  guff.  I  don't  feel 
myself  at  all  below  anybody's  sister," 
says  I. 

"  You're  not,"  says  he,  "  but  you're 
so  cold,  and  hard,  so  cold,"  says  he. 

"  Not  at  all,"  says  I.  "  I  never  get 
cold  until  long  about  the  time  the  first 
snow  falls.  And  I  like  kidding  and  I 
like  good  things  to  eat,  but  cut  out  the 
sentiment,"  says  I,  just  like  that.  I'm 
tired  of  Mr.  Bowsox,  he  ain't  near  such 
a  perfect  gentleman  as  Mr.  Barton 
Fordham  Jones,  but  Mr.  Jones  don't 
say  a  word  about  his  sisters.  They're 
mentioned  in  '  Vogue,"  sometimes 
twice  a  month. 


88        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

Sept.  20th. — I've  got  a  new  chiffon 
boa  with  black  velvet  loops  to  it.  I 
wore  it  along  the  Bialto  yesterday  and 
who  should  meet  me  but  the  owner  of 
the  Babes — and  he  noticed  me.  Of 
course  he  never  tips  his  hat.  "  Well, 
Min,"  he  says,  "you  certainly  are 
growing  to  be  a  good-looker.  Keep  it 
up,  keep  it  up." 

"Keep  what  up?"  says  I,  chewing 
my  gum  hard. 

"  Keep  up  the  licks,"  he  says;  "  you 
just  dance,  and  do  your  little  actin'  as 
hard  as  you  can,  Minnie,  and  next  show 
I  get  I'll  give  you  a  better  part." 

"  How  much  a  week?  "  says  I,  quick 
like  that,  for  I  guess  I  know  my  own 
worth,  and  I'm  not  going  to  be  flim- 
flammed,  but  he  just  laffed  at  some- 
body, and  whistled  to  him,  and  went  on. 

This  job  is  getting  easy.  Nothing  to 
do  but  act  at  night  and  have  a  good 
time  when  you  can  raise  it,  and  sleep 
late  mornings  and  wash  out  things  and 
clean  them  with  gasoline. 


BUCKING  THE  LINE  89 

Sept.  21st. — Lovell  is  crushed  on  a 
man  that  she's  only  met  once.  Yester- 
day morning  she  cried  two  hours  by 
our  clock.  "  Oh,  dry  up,"  I  told  her, 
"  I  wouldn't  be  such  a  ninny.  Why, 
you  may  never  see  him  again  at  all." 

"  I  know  it,"  she  says  and  cried 
harder  than  ever. 

"  Your  face  will  swell  up  and  if  he 
comes  to-night,  he'll  think  you're  a 
dodo-bird,"  says  Molly. 

"  I  know  it,"  Lovell  said,  and  on 
flowed  her  tears  till  I  could  hear  them 
dripping  on  our  only  rug.  Our  re- 
marks didn't  seem  to  console. 

"  What's  the  use  of  being  a  beauti- 
ful chorus  girl,"  she  said,  "if  no  one 
proposes  to  me?  " 

Gee,  that  gave  me  a  start.  I  never 
thought  about  proposals  before.  Per- 
haps we  ought  to  get  a  job  lot  somehow 
and  spiel  about  them  out  loud  before 
the  press  agent.  I  don't  know.  The 
only  proposal  I  ever  got  was  Jim's,  and 
that  don't  count  anyway,  and  I  feel 


90        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

knocked  silly  every  time  I  think  about 
it.  But  I'd  go  through  a  good  deal  of 
proposing  if  it  would  help  my  career 
any — perhaps  Mr.  Bowsox  would  do. 

Sept.  22nd. — When  Mr.  Bowsox 
rang  me  up  on  the  'phone  yesterday 
afternoon — there's  a  telephone  at  "  The 
Violet  "  —and  asked  me  to  go  to  supper 
with  him  last  night,  I  let  him  take  me. 
When  we  were  eating  our  oysters  and 
everyone  was  looking  at  us,  I  looked 
better  than  usual,  I  spoke. 

"  Mr.  Bowsox,"  I  began,  "  some- 
times you've  called  me  hard  and  cold, 
sometimes  without  sentiment,  I  have 
been  fooling  you — I  have  a  heart." 

"  I  thought  you  was  all  rigged  to  run 
for  Sweeney,"  he  began. 

"  Sweeney,"  says  I,  "  his  name  is 
Jones." 

"  Good  gracious,  Minnie,"  he  says, 
"  Sweeney  is  race-track  talk  for  the 
guy  the  dead  ones  trudge  for.  Now 
you've  given  yourself  away." 


BUCKING  THE  LINE  91 

"  No,"     I     says,     "  whatever    your 
thoughts,    'tis   you   for   who    I   really 


care." 


"  Thank  you,"  says  he,  after  a  min- 
ute, "  I  have  exactly  $2500  a  year  be- 
side what  I  make  off  the  race-track. 
Last  month  the  boy  I  bet  on  just  got 
off  and  peddled  matches.  Do  you 
think  you  could  stand  for  it?  " 

"  I'm  not  stringing  you,"  I  says. 
"  But  after  all  you  don't  care  for  me." 
I'd  learned  a  new  trick,  and  I  did  it. 
It's  to  make  your  face  as  sad  and  far 
away  as  home  on  a  wet  night.  I  was 
afraid  after  all  he  was  going  to  give  it 
to  me  where  Fanny  wears  the  fichu. 
But  not  yet. 

"  Min,"  he  says,  "  you're  a  scrap  of  a 
thing,  about  as  big  as  a  Chihuahua  dog, 
and  I  can  carry  four  members  of  the 
Fatman's  club  and  a  bale  of  hay  in  my 
saddle  bag,  and  then  put  down  four 
furlongs  quicker  than  a  spot-light  can 
reach  from  the  gallery  to  the  stage,  all 
along  I've  had  my  bet  down  on  you, 


92        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

and  you  surely  can  go  some.  You  don't 
mean  to  say  you're  thinkin'  of  giving 
up  the  race  and  becoming — a — wife  to 
anybody,  do  you? " 

"  Not  to  anyone  who  hasn't  asked 
me,"  I  said.  My,  but  it  was  hard  work. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  was  howling  for 
seventeen  hours  of  straight  slumber," 
he  began  again.  ;'  I  thought  you  were 
fixed  to  run  for  the  end  book,  so  far  as 
the  matrimonial  handicap  was  con- 
cerned. Do  you  really  want  to  wear 
my  colors,  my  dear?  " 

"  Yes,"  says  I,  in  a  hurry. 

He  gheeked  all  around  the  Caffee 
and  then  back  at  me. 

'  This  isn't  no  place  in  which  to  pro- 
pose," said  he. 

Sept.  25th. — Mr.  Bowsox  called  me 
up  again  to-day.  "  Can't  you  propose 
by  telephone,  dear?  "  I  asks,  and  then 
he  told  me  to  stop  my  kidding.  I  can't 
understand  men  at  all.  I  wouldn't  try 
to  make  Mr.  Jones  propose.  I  am  so 


BUCKING  THE  LINE  93 

thankful  for  his  friendship.  The  friend- 
ship of  such  a  man  as  that  does  a  girl  so 
much  good. 

Sept.  26th. — They're  going  to  have  a 
newsboys'  benefit,  so  they  asked  twenty 
of  us,  and  twenty  from  the  "  Purple 
Star "  chorus  and  twenty  from  the 
"  Girl  and  the  Pearl "  chorus  to  go 
down  to  Wall  Street  in  big  automobiles 
and  sell  tickets  to  brokers,  millionaires 
and  bears  down  there.  I'd  never  had 
any  errands  down  in  Wall  Street  be- 
fore, though  I  had  heard  of  it  and  knew 
where  it  was.  Well,  we  had  to  get  up 
at  eight  o'clock.  I  was  most  dead  be- 
cause we'd  been  out  to  supper  the  night 
before  with  Mr.  Barton  Fordham 
Jones,  and  the  powder  on  my  nose 
would  show  in  the  day  time.  But  I 
looked  lovely  under  a  blue  spotted  veil — 
it  is  so  hard  arranging  the  spots  so  they 
won't  get  in  your  eyes  or  under  your 
nose.  Well,  Willy  Harris  arranged  us 
in  the  automobiles,  we  did  look  lovely. 


94        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

I  never  saw  so  much  beauty  together  in 
my  life  before,  but  lots  of  the  girls  was 
much  grander  fixed  up  than  I  was. 
And  the  one  on  the  seat  next  me,  one 
of  the  "  Purple  Stars,"  could  talk  so 
much  faster  than  me  I  just  gave  her  a 
walk-over.  We  just  went  spinning 
down  Broadway,  and  everybody  stood 
still  to  gaze  at  us.  Some  was  rooted  to 
the  spot,  and  lots  of  the  girls  seemed  to 
know  fellows  along  the  admiring  pop- 
ulace, but  I  didn't  see  nobody  I  knew. 
Anyway  we  had  lots  of  jokes  among 
ourselves.  The  spear-carrier  on  the 
other  side  of  me  kept  singing  her  chorus 
about  "  A  potentate  in  him  you.  see." 

"  See  that  old  lobster  there  on  the 
corner,"  says  one  of  the  "  Purple 
Stars,"  "  he  hasn't  a  single  hair  on  his 
head,  and  his  wife  won't  let  him  wear 
a  wig,  because  she's  afraid  it'll  make 
him  frivolous." 

Then  everybody  talked  at  once. 
"  Good  for  you,  little  chafoor,  take  an- 
other corner  like  that,  and  they'll  have 


BUCKING  THE  LINE  95 

to  identify  us  by — "  "  Ain't  it  cool  and 
nice—"  "At  Atlantic  City  they—" 
"  Stop  your  noise,  Rosie,  you're  always 
too  talky—  "  And  when  I  got  to 
Cleveland,  you  may  strike  me  dead,  if 
some  one  hadn't  blacked  my  shoes  for 
me—"  "Is  that  Maxie?  Of  course,  it 
is — doesn't  he  look  like  a  little  band-box 
this  morning  ?  It  isn't  ?  Who  is  it  then, 
Smarty?  "  "  Why,  that's  Bat  Nelson; 
my  sister  knew  him  before  he  went  on 
the  pugilistic  stage."  '  Your  hatpin  is 
caught  in  my  veil—  "  Move  over, 
you're  a  regular  crowd—  '  To-night 
at  six  o'clock—  :<  If  he  doesn't  for- 
get— "  Look  at  that  old  jay  almost 
got  run  over;  somebody  at  home  would 
miss  him—  "  No,  it  goes  Tra-la-la- 
la-la-la-la-tra--la-la— "  "  She  had  the 
audacity  to  walk  right  into  my  flat— 
"  Oh,  he's  a  mutt  and  everybody  knows 
it—"  "  He  don't— " 

"  Now,  girls,"  says  Willy  Harris, 
turning  around  and  talking  through  a 
megaphone,  "  you  must  remember 


96        DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

about  the  poor  little  newsboys  what  this 
benefit's  given  for,  and  you  just  make 
every  man  you  see  buy  a  ticket — no  in- 
troductions needed." 

Wall  Street  is  a  dinky,  narrow,  deep, 
dark  place,  all  choked  up  by  the  crowd 
—no  women  around. 

My,  there  was  a  bunch  drawn  up  to 
see  us  light  all  right  and  everyone  was 
jollying.  I  suppose  there  were  lots  of 
millionaires  standing  around  in  the 
crowd,  tho'  they  looked  mostly  like  mes- 
senger boys  and  men  type-writers  and 
clerks — nobody  had  on  silk  hats.  Well, 
I  always  have  got  my  sense  along,  and 
I  says  to  the  Purple  Stars  with  me,  "  I 
don't  want  to  follow  this  outfit  like  a 
lot  of  sheep,  as  if  Willy  Harris  had  a 
bell  on  his  collar.  Everybody's  laugh- 
ing and  there'll  be  auctions  in  the  halls, 
but  no  one  will  know  us  from  the  rest 
of  the  merrys.  I  guess  I'm  almost  a 
principal  now  anyway — let's  sell  tick- 
ets by  ourselves,  and  keep  out  of  the 
stampede."  So  we  sacheted  up  a  stair- 


BUCKING  THE  LINE  97 

way  and  went  in  to  offices.  My,  they 
were  grand.  There  was  one  which  had 
so  much  gilt  and  marble  and  red  plush 
on  it,  it  was  more  beautiful  than  the 
pink  boudoir  in  the  Parisian  palace. 
But  I  walked  right  in  with  my  elbows 
sticking  out  just  as  determined. 

Some  men  got  up  from  some  chairs 
and  looked  at  us. 

"  Is  Mr.  Pierpont  Morgan  at 
home?  "  I  says,  just  like  that,  with  nose 
in  the  air. 

"  This  is  not  Mr.  Morgan's  office," 
says  one  of  them,  looking  worried. 

"  Oh,  well,"  says  I,  "  I  don't  know. 
I  didn't  look  at  the  name  on  the  door," 
I  says,  "  haven't  time." 

"  There  is  no  name  on  the  door,"  says 
the  young  man. 

'  Well,  whatever  it  is,  is  he  at 
home?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,  he's  out,"  he  answered,  smil- 
ing. "He's  not  at  home  to  any  callers. 
He's  out  for  the  week." 

"  Oh,  look  here,"  I  says,  going  up  to 


98         DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

him,  "  I  don't  want  to  see  him,  who- 
ever he  is  in  behind  those  haughty  glass 
doors  there,"  I  said;  "does  he  listen 
through  it?  I  don't  want  to  interrupt 
him  at  his  job  any  more  than  he'd  in- 
terrupt me  at  mine.  He  wouldn't  do 
that,  would  he?" 

"  No,"  he  says,  laughing. 

"  But  you  know  there  are  a  lot  of 
poor,  down-trod,  half -naked,  starving 
little  newsies  in  this  town,  and  we're  do- 
ing something  for  them.  It's  charity. 
Want  a  ticket?  Oh,  go  ahead,  be  a 
good  fellow,"  I  said,  and  he  bought  one. 
Some  more  men  came  out  from  behind 
the  glass  doors,  and  they  bought 
more  tickets,  and  we  all  laughed  and 
talked. 

"  Gee,"  I  said,  at  last,  looking  at  the 
clock,  "  it's  time  we  were  moving  on. 
Be  brief  is  our  motto,"  and  on  we  went 
to  another  joint.  I  knocked  at  a  door, 
then  I  opened  it  and  went  in.  "  Is 
Mr.  John  D.  Rockefeller  in?  "  says  I. 
There  were  three  men  seated  there. 


BUCKING  THE  LINE  99 

"Well,  he's  in— for  a  good  deal," 
says  one,  "  but  this  isn't  his  office." 

"  No  matter,"  I  said  airily  to  one  of 
the  old  ones,  for  the  Purple  Stars 
couldn't  think  of  anything  to  say, 
"  you  are  just  as  good." 

'  You  do  me  too  much  honor,"  he 
said,  bowing  so  serious,  you  would  have 
thought  he  meant  it. 

"  John  D.  Rock-a-feller  or  John  D. 
Do-a-fellow,  it's  all  the  same  to  me,"  I 
says  to  him.  "  Tainted  money  or  not, 
I'd  give  him  just  the  same  chance  I'm 
giving  you.  There  are  a  lot  of  poor, 
hungry,  snuffling  little  newsboys  with- 
out a  stitch  of  clothing  to  their 
backs- 

"  Tickets?"  he  asked,  grinning  and 
pushing  his  hooks  down  into  his 
pockets. 

"  Perhaps  you  asked  me  to  take  a 
seat,"  I  says,  "  but  I'm  a  little  deaf  this 
A.  M.  I  climbed  all  those  old  stairs  of 
yours  to  give  you  this  chance — not  that 
I  wouldn't  rather  be  sleeping  calmly  in 


100      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

my  bed  this  moment.  But  I'm  a 
'  Babe '  from  the  beauty  chorus  of  forty, 
you  know,  so  I  had  to  help.  I  think 
you  might  give  a  lady  a  chair."  Then 
they  got  us  chairs  in  a  hasten,  and  we 
all  giggled.  I  told  them  how  glad  I 
was  to  have  met  them  in  this  pleasant 
informal  way,  and  if  any  of  them  hap- 
pened to  be  out  my  way,  on  my  day  at 
home,  I  hoped  they'd  call,  and  as  I 
knew  this  wasn't  their  day  at  home  I'd 
be  going  on,  as  I  didn't  want  to  intrude 
upon  their  grand  work  for  humanity. 
Everybody  laughed,  and  by  this  time 
we  had  two  or  three  young  fellows  go- 
ing along  with  us  to  see  what  I'd  say 
next.  I  was  having  more  fun  than  a 
crate  of  chickens.  Then  all  of  a  sudden 
something  happened — just  like  that. 
A  street  organ  was  playing  a  tune  out- 
side that  they'd  played  at  Rector's  last 
night,  when  I  sat  at  supper  with  Mr. 
Jones,  and  I  remembered  just  how  nice 
he'd  been  to  me.  And  how  sweet  the 
flowers  smelled  he'd  sent  me,  and  how 


BUCKING  THE  LINE  101 

it  seemed  as  if  life  never  was  so  much 
worth  living  as  when  you're  young,  and 
a  man,  you  thoroughly  respect,  looks 
into  your  eyes,  and  says  he — loves  you. 
Well,  I  don't  allow  no  nonsense,  but 
I  had  just  felt  as  if  life  was  awfully 
good  to  let  such  a  lovely,  kind-hearted, 
good-looking  man  as  that  care  for  me— 
and  I  felt  if  he  wanted  me  to  give  up  the 
stage — well,  he  was  the  only  man  I'd 
ever  seen  who  was  as  good  as  a  career. 
So  when  the  grind-organ  began  that 
long,  slow  wailing  song  it  has,  I  leaned 
my  elbows  on  the  window-sill  in  the 
hall  a  minute,  up  ten  stories,  and  my 
thought  went  back  to  Rector's — I  re- 
membered the  look  in  Mr.  Barton  Ford- 
ham  Jones'  eyes,  and  how  he  seemed 
somewhat  delicate  in  spite  of  his  size, 
and  I  just  said  to  myself,  "  Anyway,  I 
hope  no  harm  won't  ever  come  to  him— 
he's  too  good  a  man  to  have  to  suffer  in 
any  way,  and  I  know  he's  not  unsin- 


cere." 


"  Come  on,  Miss  Higgins,"  says  one 


102       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

of  the  men  in  that  light  way  they  all 
have,  except — Mr.  Jones;  "  you  seem  in 
maiden  meditation  fancy  free." 

"Oh,  I'm  fancy  free,  all  right,"  I 
laughed.  "  It's  pooh,  pooh  for  mine. 
And  now  for  the  little  newsies.  I  never 
shirk  my  job,  so  hike  on,"  says  I,  and 
we  went  in  to  an  office,  and  when  they 
knew  who  we  were,  though  we  didn't 
give  no  names,  they  had  us  ushered  in  to 
an  inner  office.  There  was  two  old  men 
there  and  three  young  ones,  and  one  of 
the  young  men  was  Mr.  Barton  Ford- 
ham  Jones,  looking  lovely  in  a  pale  gray 
suit,  with  a  lavendar  necktie.  He  was 
just  lighting  a  cigar  and  looked  up 
when  we  came  in.  He  didn't  move.  I 
was  so  glad  to  see  him,  I  went  right  over 
to  him. 

"  Oh,  we  didn't  know  it  was  your  of- 
fice," I  put  it  to  him.  "  But  I'm  so  glad 
it  is.  You  never  told  me  you  would 
take  a  ticket  last  night  at  supper.  I 
didn't  think  I'd  find  one  of  my  best 
friends  here.  I'm  afraid  of  strangers, 


BUCKING  THE  LINE  103 

tho'  I  don't  look  it,"  I  smiled.  One  of 
the  old  men  straightened  up  and  looked 
over  at  Mr.  Jones,  and  no  one  else 
spoke. 

"  Of  course,  you're  mistaken  about 
knowing  me,"  he  said  to  me  after  a  min- 
ute, "  I've  never  seen  you  before  in  my 
life,  you  know."  Then  he  went  on 
smoking.  "  Must  be  another  Jones- 
there  are  such  a  lot — but  I'll  buy  your 
tickets,"  he  added.  Then  he  looked  over 
at  the  old  gentleman  and  smiled,  and  the 
old  gentleman  smiled  back  again,  and 
I  understood — just  like  that!  He 
wasn't  no  more  a  perfect  gentleman 
than  Mr.  Bowsox  was,  for  even  Mr. 
Bowsox  wasn't  ashamed  to  say  he  knew 
me,  and  whatever  Mr.  Jones'  reasons 
was  for  pretending  he  didn't  know  me, 
my  ideal  died  within  me. 

"  Of  course,  a  case  of  mistaken  iden- 
tity," I  said,  with  my  nose  up.  "  My 
acquaintance  among  millionaires  is  so 
extensive,  that  of  course  sometimes  I  get 
them  mixed  up,"  and  they  thought  that 


104      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

funny.  I  knew  I  could  bring  them — 
"  Why,  sometimes  when  I'm  out  at  one 
of  those  intense  swell  teas  where  they 
gabble,  gobble,  and  get,  and  their  hus- 
bands would  rather  be  dead  than  seen 
at, — I  meet  so  many  of  the  best  people, 
I  can  hardly  tell  one  from  another,  and 
sometimes  you  know  I  can  hardly  tell 
a  stage-gentleman  from  a  real  one." 
And  Mr.  Jones  just  sat  there  looking  at 
me  and  smoking.  Well,  they  all  bought 
tickets  and  we  went  out,  and  I  let  the 
others  go  ahead,  and  just  stood  at  the 
window,  listening  to  that  organ  grinder 
play,  and  wiping  the  tears  from  my 
eyes.  It  is  so  hard  to  see  one's  ideals 
fade. 

Somebody  touched  my  arm.  It  was 
a  man — rather  a  small  man,  not  very 
good-looking,  who  had  been  in  there, 
but  I  hadn't  talked  to  though  there  had 
been  a  lot  of  gab  and  jolly  before  we 
went  out. 

'  What  did  you  mean  about  the 
stage  gentleman?"  he  asked,  smiling. 


BUCKING  THE  LINE  105 

"  You  see  I'm  interested  because  we're 
in  the  same  profession." 

I  wasn't  particularly  impressed,  but 
he  looked  kind  enough  to  open  a  door 
for  a  lady  even  if  his  folks  were  looking. 
"  I  guess  you  knew  what  I  meant,  all 
right,"  I  says,  not  going  to  let  him  see 
me  wipe  tears  like  a  greenie.  '  The 
stage  is  a  grand  career,  ain't  it? " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  it  being 
so  grand,"  he  laughed.  "  But  it's  the 
greatest  fun  ever.  Say,  come  around 
and  see  me  act,  won't  you?  I've  seen 
you  and  at  least  you  ought  to  do  as 
much  for  me,"  and  he  gave  me  a  dinky 
matinee  ticket  for  a  certain  date,  and 
then  he  went.  I'm  on  to  their  ways 
of  filling  up  a  house  with  paper,  when 
their  old  show  don't  go.  I  was  just 
sticking  it  in  my  purse,  when  the  door 
at  the  end  of  the  hall  opened  and  out 
sneaked  Mr.  Barton  Fordham  Jones. 
Gee,  I  wonder  if  I  knew  he  would,  the 
reason  I  was  there.  But  it's  awful  to 
see  one's  ideal  sneak. 


106      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

"  You're  a  stranger  to  me,"  I  says. 
"  I've  never  laid  eyes  on  you  before." 
And  I  turned  my  profile  toward  him 
because  he  once  said  he  liked  it. 

"  Now,  Minnie,"  he  says,  "  be  a  good 
girl,  I  do  like  you  awfully,  but  how's 
the  governor  to  know  what  sort  you  are? 
You  don't  want  me  to  be  cut  off  without 
a  cent,  do  you? " 

"  I  don't  care,"  says  I,  taking  out  my 
gum  and  chewing  it,  because  I  knew  he 
didn't  like  that.  '  Your  bank  account 
is  a  matter  of  real  indifference  to  me, 
Mr.  Jones." 

"  Come  to  lunch  with  me,  there's  a 
good  girl!  "  he  says. 

'  Where's  a  good  girl?  "  says  I,  with 
my  nose  in  the  air.  "  I  don't  see  any 
here.  Well,  I  wouldn't  go  to  any  pub- 
lic place  with  you  for  a  row  of  brown- 
stones.  Some  of  your  snob  relations 
might  catch  you.  You  would  get  up 
and  run  and  leave  me  to  pay  the  bill." 

"  I  always  pay  my  bills,"  he  said, 
haughtily — then  he  took  hold  of  my 


BUCKING  THE  LINE  107 

hand.  "  Now,  Minnie  dear,"  he  says, 
just  as  in  novels — "  you  misconstrue 
my  actions.  I  am  not  at  all  ashamed 
of  being  seen  with  you." 

At  that  moment  out  came  the  old 
man,  and  Barton  just  twisted  himself 
around  the  balustrade,  and  disappeared 
upstairs.  It's  awful  to  see  one's  ideal 
act  like  that.  As  I  watched  him  I  knew 
my  heart  was  dead. 

"  I  understand  your  actions — they 
aren't  hard  to  see  through,"  says  I  to 
him,  when  he  got  back  and  the  old  man 
had  gone  proudly  on  without  a  glance. 
'  They  remind  me  very  much  of  the 
actions  of  our  janitor's  dog  when  it's 
trying  to  find  something  in  the  ash- 
barrel." 

"  How  you  do  talk,"  he  laughs — 
"  you're  awfully  taking — so  funny,  with 
that  angel-face,  too.  You'll  come  to 
lunch  with  me,  won't  you?" 

"  Why  should  I?  "  says  I—"  I  have 
enough  to  eat  at  home." 

"  But  I  care  so  much  for  you,"  he 


108       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

tells  me,  holding  my  hand,  "  you're  such 
a  pretty  little  imp  and  you  are  clever 
in  your  funny  little  way,  tho'  you  don't 
know  it.  I'm  awfully  depressed  to- 
day, really,  I  need  cheering  up.  We 
won't  have  anything  sentimental  or 
anything  of  that  sort,  for  of  course  I 
love  you  too  much  to  tell  you  so — now, 
—but  I  can't  live  without  you, — do 
come." 

"  Mr.  Barton  Fordham  Jones,"  says 
I,  "  please  give  me  back  my  hand  when 
you  are  quite,  quite  done  with  it.  And 
your  father,  I  am  sure,  will  understand 
my  feelings."  His  father  had  come  up 
the  stairs  and  had  stood  there  and  heard 
every  word,  and  I  let  him  go  on,  while 
his  father  and  I  just  looked  at  each 
other.  No  one  can  stare  me  off  the 
stage.  I  took  Barton's  hand  and  led 
him  over  to  his  pa:  "  Mr.  Jones— 

"  Fordham- Jones,"  says  the  old  man 
stiffly. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Fordham  Jones,"  I  went 
on,  not  a  bit  rattled.  For  was  I  not  a 


BUCKING  THE  LINE 


109 


110       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

celebrity,  and  they  only  in  private  life? 
"  If  I  had  ever  had  your  son,  I'd  give 
him  back  to  you  now.  But  I've  never 
had  him  a  bit.  He's  never  told  me  the 
truth,  and  he's  never  even  proposed  to 
me.  What  I  am  looking  for — is  pro- 
posals. The  press-agent  likes  them.  I 
have  just  declined  to  go  to  lunch  with 
your  son,  and  I  wouldn't  go  to  lunch 
with  you,  if  you  should  ask  me."  The 
old  man  sort  of  groaned,  so  to  cheer  him 
up,  I  said;  "  though  of  the  two  I  like 
you  the  best.  But  I  think  you're  both 
too  awfully  stuck  up  for  me.  And  I 
wish  you'd  keep  your  son  at  home  in- 
stead of  letting  him  clutter  up  the  side- 
walks in  front  of  our  stage  entrance.  I 
want  plenty  of  room.  That's  the  kind 
of  a  girl  I  am.  And  thank  you  so  much 
for  buying  the  tickets." 

Then  I  bowed  to  them,  very  elegant, 
indeed,  and  the  old  man  glared  at  Bar- 
ton, and  Barton  glared  at  me,  but  I 
went  downstairs  and  climbed  into  our 
automobile.  And  I  had  sold  as  many 


BUCKING  THE  LINE  111 

tickets  as  any  of  the  girls,  tho  the  "  Pur- 
ple Stars  "  were  away  ahead  of  the 
"  Babes  "  altogether  because  as  a  whole 
they  had  more  brass,  having  been  on 
Broadway  longer.  They  were  traipsing 
along  with  a  lot  of  men  they'd  picked 
up,  who  had  given  them  tips  on  the 
market,  they  said. 

Sept.  25th. — The  newsboys  are  dubs, 
anyway.  They  hissed  one  of  the  ladies 
which  sung  at  their  benefit.  My  heart 
is  still  dead. 


THE   TOUCHDOWN 

OCTOBER  7th. — Well,  to-day  being 
Thursday  I  believe  I'll  go  to  that  mat- 
inee that  man  gave  me  the  ticket  for. 
As  long  as  I  haven't  anything  else  to 
do,  and  I've  got  a  new  blue  hat,  with 
three  feathers  under  the  back  brim,  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  go. 

October  8th. — The  name  of  the  piece 
was  "  The  Under  Dog,"  and  it  seemed 
kind  of  odd,  not  having  anything  in  it 
about  girls,  or  belles,  or  Babes,  or  noth- 
ing of  that  sort  which  always  draws  the 
crowd,  but  there  was  a  big  house.  It 
had  a  plot  too — I  got  so  interested  I 
almost  laughed  myself  to  death,  and 
then  I  thought  where  in  the  merry, 

112 


THE  TOUCHDOWN  113 

merry,  is  the  gentleman  who  gave  me 
the  paste-board.  And  you  could  have 
hung  me  over  your  shoulder  limp  as  a 
bag  of  salt,  when  I  saw  that  the  star, 
Harry  Hopper,  was  .the  man  himself. 
Why,  I've  seen  Harry  Hopper's  mug 
decorating  the  elevated  stations  for  six 
years,  and  yet  I  didn't  recognize  him 
that  day  in  that  sky-scraper  by  the  open 
window  up  in  Wall  Street.  Gee,  but  I 
felt  good,  thinking  a  man  like  that  had 
noticed  little  me.  Why,  he's  a  star, 
bigger  than  our  star,  and  he  can  act  and 
sing  too  like  a  bird  and  he's  an  illus- 
trious genius.  There  was  two  big,  long 
acts  and  in  between — I'm  so  excited 
my  pen's  jiggering — in  between  the 
acts,  one  of  them  fresh  ushers  touched 
me  on  the  shoulder  and  asked 
would  I  like  to  go  up  behind  the 
scenes?  Now,  wouldn't  that  take  the 
lead? 

'  I've  got  my  hat  off,  and  I  paid  for 
this  seat,"  I  says,  sort  of  low  down  sus- 
picious. 


114      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

"  Yes,  miss,"  he  says,  grinning. 
"  You're  Miss  Higgins,  aren't  you? 
Mr.  Hopper  gives  the  invitation." 

Then  I  jumps  up,  pins  on  my  lovely 
hat  in  a  jiffy,  and  takes  my  bag  of  choc- 
olates with  me,  and  follows  the  fresh 
one  up  behind  the  scenes,  as  if  I  didn't 
know  the  stage  too  well  to  get  lost  in 
the  mazes  of  no  scenery  without  a  fresh 
kid  like  that  to  show  me  the  way  my 
nose  was  pointing. 

There  sat  Mr.  Hopper  in  his  make- 
up, on  a  stool  in  his  dressing-room. 

'  Well,  how's  every  little  thing  with 
you  this  morning?  "  he  asks  easy  like, 
offering  me  a  chair.  "  I  want  to  intro- 
duce you  to  my  sister,  Miss  Holmes." 
Say,  you  could  have  knocked  me  down 
with  a  feather.  She  is  his  sister,  she 
looks  like  him,  only  she  looks  older,  be- 
ing a  woman.  To  meet  a  sister  rattled 
me  so  I  ate  two  chocolates  before  I 
thought  to  offer  her  one. 

4  Well,  I've  heard  such  a  lot  from 
Harry  about  how  pretty  you  are,  and 


THE  TOUCHDOWN  115 

how  smart  you  are,"  she  said,  "  that 
I'm  glad  to  see  you  at  last,  Miss  Hig- 
gins." 

Mr.  Hopper  got  up  and  walked 
across  the  room,  and  fixed  the  black 
over  one  eyebrow,  as  if  he  didn't  like 
her  saying  that.  But  you  bet  I  did. 
He  looked  so  funny  and  solemn  in  that 
side-splitting  make-up  I  just  laughed 
right  out. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Hopper,"  I  says,  "  I  never 
guessed  it  was  you  who  give  me  the 
ticket.  I  didn't  suppose  such  a  great 
man  as  you  would  ever  notice  a  chorus 
girl.  Why,  you  get  a  laugh  for  every 
line.  You're  a  wonder.  I  believe  you 
could  make  'em  cry  too,  if  you  wanted 
to.  You  just  got  them  going.  That 
audience  is  all  yours." 

Then  he  laughed  and  wasn't  rattled 
no  more,  and  somehow,  I  just  felt  he 
was  a  friend  of  mine.  I  told  him  all 
my  ambitions,  and  he  said  why  not  go 
to  a  dramatic  school,  education  counts, 
of  course  I  haven't  any,  except  what 


116      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

that  old  corkscrew-curled  principal  of 
mine  threw  at  me  back  in  Paris,  Ohio. 
Precious  little  of  it  stuck.  Anyway, 
when  I  had  to  go,  and  his  call  boy  had 
come,  I'd  told  him  everything,  even  if 
his  sister  did  hear,  and  I  was  sure  he 
sympathized  with  me  about  my  love  for 
Mr.  Jones,  tho'  we  didn't  mention  no 
names. 

"  Oh,  girls!  "  I  said  in  the  dressing- 
room  before  our  show.  "  I've  seen  and 
talked  with  a  real  actor,  I  have,  and  I 
don't  believe  I'm  no  Fritzi  Scheff  any 
more."  Just  as  I  said  that,  there  came 
a  note  for  me — it  said,  "  I've  sold  out 
the  livery-stable  business,  and  I've 
come  to  New  York  to  stay.  I'll  be  at 
the  stage  entrance.  Jim."  Now, 
wouldn't  that  jar  you?  All  through 
the  kick-up,  and  "  The  Peaches,"  too, 
I  was  just  wondering  what  I  was  going 
to  do  with  the  jay.  I  hoped  there 
wouldn't  any  bunco  sharps  run  off  with 
him  before  I  could  reach  him.  Then  I 
remembered  how  big  he  was,  but  I 


THE  TOUCHDOWN  117 

didn't  want  him  to  spend  none  of  that 
hard-earned  dough  on  me. 

"What's  the  matter,  angel-face?" 
says  Mr.  Smith  to  me,  when  we  danced 
together. 

"  Nothing,"  says  I,  in  the  lady's 
chain,  "  except  that  an  old  beau's  wait- 
ing for  me  outside,  and  I've  got  to  side- 
track him." 

Then  I  thought  of  a  scheme.  I  just 
laughed  right  out,  and  Old  Bill  didn't 
give  me  the  high-sign. 

Well,  at  the  door  there  was  Jim,  and 
I  had  along  with  me  a  new  chorus  girl. 
We  called  her  "  The  Idiot  Child,"  be- 
cause she  is  greener  than  me  even.  But 
the  cutest,  little,  black-eyed  jay,  with  a 
sort  of  stupid  look  around  the  mouth, 
but  she  has  dimples. 

"  My  friend,  Miss  Shoreham,"  says 
I,  grand  as  could  be.  '  We  three  go  to 
supper  together;  no,  not  to  Rector's, 
some  cheap  place  will  do  me,  I'm  tired 
of  grandeur." 

Jim   swallowed   the    big   word    and 


118      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

swallowed  the  whole  thing — I  could 
hear  him  clearing  his  throat. 

At  first  he  didn't  notice  "  The  Idiot 
Child  "  much;  he  was  busy  asking  me 
how  I  did,  and  if  the  game  payed,  and 
all  that  truck. 

"Pay?"  I  said.  "I'd  rather  be  a 
scene-shifter's  infant  child,  if  I  couldn't 
stay  on  the  stage  any  other  way,  than 
to  be  the  wife  of  the  Mayor  of  Paris, 
Ohio."  Then  he  understood.  Then  the 
Idiot  began  piping  off  to  him,  in  her 
soft  little  voice,  and  all  at  once  I  saw 
him  notice  those  dimples  of  hers.  Well, 
Jim  is  a  good  looker,  even  in  the  city 
here,  among  all  the  swells,  and  his  jay 
clothes  don't  keep  some  from  knowing 
he's  a  gentleman.  "  The  Idiot  Child  " 
began  adoring  him  before  supper  was 
over.  Sometimes  I've  wished  for  dim- 
ples, but  my  business  is  such  an  exer- 
cising one  it  keeps  them  down. 

October  18th. — I've  often  thought 
how  lovely  it  would  be  if  Miss  Wyncote 


THE  TOUCHDOWN  119 

should  get  real  sick — something  that 
would  keep  her  in  bed,  like  appendicitis 
or  scarlet  fever.  She  looks  the  picture 
of  health.  What  chance  is  there 
for  an  understudy  to  a  leading-lady 
who's  the  picture  of  health?  Some  of 
us  never  has  any  luck.  The  whole 
world's  against  us. 

October  20th. — I  went  to  a  Dramatic 
School  and  got  a  lesson.  A  tall, 
preacher-looking  man  took  my  name 
and  address.  He  said  it  was  voice  cul- 
ture. He  said  voices  were  so  beautiful 
when  they  were  well  placed.  I  told 
him  mine  was  placed  in  my  boots,  and 
he  didn't  like  it,  so  I  told  him  anyway 
that  was  better  than  having  them  placed 
in  someone  else's  boots,  where  you 
couldn't  get  at  'em  without  asking,  and 
he  didn't  like  that  either.  Then  he  told 
me  to  open  my  mouth  wide,  and  when 
I'd  most  cracked  my  jaw,  he  looked 
down  it  a  long  while.  6  Your  throat, 
any  throat  is  so  interesting,"  he  says. 


120      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

"  Thank  you,"  says  I,  when  I  got  my 
jaws  to  working  again.  Then  he  threw 
out  a  lot  more  guff  about  our  throats 
and  looked  down  into  them  again,  then 
he  said  as  we  were  weary  we  could  take 
a  recess.  In  recess  I  bragged  to  the 
girl  next  to  me  that  I  knew  Harry 
Hopper  well.  She  didn't  believe  me,  so 
I  told  her  I  wasn't  in  the  habit  of  lying. 
She  said  she  supposed  it  might  become 
a  habit  at  any  time.  Then  recess  was 
over,  and  we  all  stood  up  and  puffed 
our  chests  out  like  pidgeons,  and  beat 
them  like  drums  with  our  two  hands.  I 
worked  so  hard  I  made  myself  black 
and  blue,  and  The  Butterfly  costume 
don't  include  no  beads  either.  Then  we 
drew  such  long  breaths  I  felt  quite 
faint,  and  one  of  my  corset-strings 
busted. 

"  Breathe  deep,"  says  the  teacher. 
"  Breathe  deep,  young  ladies  and  young 
man.  The  longer  you  breathe  the 
longer  you  live." 

Then  we  breathed  some  more.    Then 


THE  TOUCHDOWN 

he  said  it  again.  After  awhile  the  les- 
son was  over,  and  we  got  little  cards 
saying  it  cost  $8.00.  I  didn't  have  it 
with  me,  but  he  said  he'd  send  the  bill 
to  my  manager.  Gee!  Then  as  we 
went  out  the  door,  he  said,  as  slow  as  a 
train  of  freight  cars,  "  The  longer  you 
breathe,  the  longer  you  live." 

"  Yes,"  says  I,  brightly,  and  putting 
my  gum  back,  "  and  the  longer  you  live, 
the  longer  you'll  breathe." 

Somehow,  he  didn't  seem  pleased 
with  that,  but  he'd  given  us  tickets,  so 
we  went  in  to  one  of  them  student's 
matinees.  There  was  lots  of  nicely 
dressed  parents  there,  and  strangers 
from  other  parts  of  the  country,  and 
actors  who  knew  some  of  the  girls.  The 
first  play  was  about  some  women  who 
wanted  to  give  a  club  reception,  and 
how  to  raise  the  money,  and  they  were 
all  alike  in  as  good  dresses  as  they  could 
get  together.  That  was  the  trouble, 
they  were  just  girls  acting,  not  club 
ladies,  and  it  seemed  when  they  came  in, 


DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

I  could  hear  'em  say,  "  Sallie,  is  my 
dress  hanging  well?"  "Of  course, 
Mary,  wasn't  it  funny  I  didn't  get  any 
applause  at  my  entrance? "  Sallie 
looked  so  humiliated  over  that.  Instead 
of  comforting  her  out  loud,  Mary  was 
saying,  "  Whatever  shall  I  do?  When 
my  husband  comes  home,  he  will  find 
out  that  I  have  been  stealing  from  his 
bank  account!  Such  a  situation."  And 
husband  was  very  moral  and  particular 
about  stealing.  When  the  old  man  with 
the  wig  came  on,  and  he  went  over  and 
grasped  his  hand,  I  could  just  hear  him 
whisper,  "  Too  bad,  old  man,  we're  get- 
ting a  frost,"  but  out  loud  he  was  say- 
ing, "  Let  us  put  up  a  joke  on  the  ladies 
and  scare  them  a  bit.  It  will  be  a  good 
lesson."  After  awhile  the  curtain  went 
down  and  there  hadn't  been  a  laugh, 
but  they  came  out  and  bowed,  looking 
so  bewildered.  Then  I  came  home  to 
"  The  Violet,"  stumbled  over  a  baby- 
buggy  in  the  dark  hall,  and  wrote  all 
about  the  lesson  to  Mr.  Hopper,  and 


THE  TOUCHDOWN 

that  I  was  afraid  I  couldn't  take  the 
time  from  my  real  work — not  that  I 
minded  the  money. 

Oct.  21st.— The  Idiot  Child  came  to 
me  to-day,  and  asked  me  all  about  Jim. 
She  said  Mr.  Burns  had  told  her  he  was 
going  to  study  dentistry,  but  she  said 
she  thought  he  was  joking,  and  that  he 
was  really  a  college  fellow,  or  a  sen- 
ator's son  from  somewhere. 

October  26th.— I  told  Jim  that  hon- 
estly I  couldn't  go  out  to  supper  with 
him  two  nights  running;  it  wasn't  con- 
sidered proper  here.  Then  when  Mr. 
Bowsox  asked  me  I  went  home  to  "  The 
Violet"  and  went  to  bed.  I  didn't 
want  to  hurt  poor  old  Jim's  feelings  by 
going  out  with  Mr.  Bowsox  instead. 

Nov.  1st. — Grandcourt  spoke  to  me 
last  night.  She  said  Marmaduke's 
name  had  been  changed  to  Isabel,  and 
that  he — she — has  two  puppies,  and  she 


DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

would  give  me  one  to  show  there  was 
no  hard  feelings.  I  wonder  if  I'm  go- 
ing to  be  fired — she  seems  so  easy  in  her 
mind. 

Nov.  2nd. — I  asked  Mr.  Hopper 
what  he  thought  about  it,  and  he  said 
not  to  worry.  He  walked  with  me  up 
Broadway,  he  asked  me  when  my 
mother  was  coming  to  visit  me,  and  I 
asked  him  how  he  knew  I  had  a  mother, 
and  he  said  I  looked  like  it. 

Nov.  3rd. — I  wrote  Mr.  Hopper  a 
note,  telling  him  that  I  had  a  bad  sore 
throat  and  couldn't  go  to  the  theater 
that  afternoon,  and  was  afraid  I'd  lose 
my  job,  and  he  came  to  see  me.  He 
said  he  thought  "  The  Violet  "  ought 
to  be  named  "  The  Onion,"  it  smelt  so 
of  other  people's  dinners.  Molly  let 
him  in  and  they  joshed  a  good  deal,  but 
I  couldn't  because  I  had  such  a  sore 
throat.  Then  they  cooked  me  a  little 
dinner,  and  Mr.  Hopper  went  out  and 


THE  TOUCHDOWN  125 

bought  some  oysters  to  cook  for  me. 
He  did  it  awful  funny,  and  we  had  to 
laugh  so,  my  throat  got  worse.  Then 
he  said  he'd  have  to  stop  being 
funny  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 
He  said  the  couch  in  the  kitchen  under 
the  dum  waiter  was  a  great  idea,  and 
he  hoped  mother  wouldn't  take  my  bed, 
for  then  I'd  have  to  sleep  on  those 
boards  across  the  bath-tub.  He  didn't 
like  the  bath-tub  idea.  He  said  it  was 
wonderful  how  cosy  our  little  green 
window  curtains  looked,  and  if  I  really 
liked  that  fellow — he  meant  the  picture 
of  our  star — he  did  have  the  big-head 
so.  I  said,  "  No,"  I  had  to  talk  slow, 
"  I  don't  like  him,  not  since  I  met — 
you  know  who " 

"Do  you  mean  me,  imp? "  he  asked, 
picking  up  my  shawl,  so  funny. 

"  No,"  I  says,  "  Mr.  Barton— Ford- 
ham — Jones — I  love  him  yet.  Isn't  it 
romantic? " 

"  No,"  he  says.  "  He's  a  young 
puppy." 


126       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

Then  I  guess  the  tears  came  to  my 
eyes,  for  I  couldn't  help  thinking  of 
those  lovely  times  Mr.  Jones  and  I  had 
had  together,  with  the  music  playing 
"  Salome  "  and  all  that. 

"  Is  it  your  throat  or  Mr.  Jones?" 
he  asked. 

'  It's  Mr.  Jones,"  I  answered,  and 
he  patted  my  hand. 

"I'm  surprised  at  you  being  so  nice 
to  a  mere  chorus  girl,"  I  says. 

:'  I  am,  too,"  he  says;  "  I'm  an  old 
fool."  Then  he  picked  up  his  hat  and 
goes  away. 

He's  a  very  funny  man,  off  the  stage 
as  well  as  on.  He  told  me  not  to  worry 
about  my  job.  I  lay  thinking  about 
the  color  of  Mr.  Jones'  eyes,  all  the  time 
the  girls  were  gone.  My  throat  is 
better. 

Nov.  25th. — The  owner  took  hold  of 
my  arm  yesterday  and  said:  "  I'll  fire 
you,  if  you  don't  do  better."  It  hurt. 
I  guess  houses  for  "  The  Babes "  is 


THE  TOUCHDOWN  127 

thinning  out  some.  I  went  to  Del's 
with  Molly  and  two  new  men.  Jim 
wouldn't  speak  to  me.  I'm  making  no 
squawk  about  that. 

Nov.  29th. — To-day  Jim  came  up 
here  to  "  The  Violet  "  and  began  scold- 
ing me.  "  How  do  you  know  what  kind 
of  men  those  were?  "  he  says.  '  Who's 
Molly  to  do  the  introducing  " 

"  I'll  thank  you  to  leave  my  name  out 
of  your  discussion,  Mr.  Burns,"  Molly 
said  to  him.  "  I  guess  I'm  just  as  good 
a  judge  of  men  as  you  are.  We  have  to 
go  out  to  dinner  or  supper  now  and 
then,  it's  all  in  the  business." 

'  You're  a  mutt,  Jim,"  I  told  him, 
picking  up  Marmaduke's  puppy.  "  Do 
you  expect  me  to  work  all  night,  and 
wash  up  the  dishes,  and  sleep  all  day, 
and  never  have  no  pleasures  at  all? 
Every  old  thing  has  its  pleasures,  even 
a  parrot  with  its  tail  feathers  gone  looks 
forward  to  having  a  shindig  with  the 
monkeys  now  and  then.  I  don't  like 


128      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

any  gentlemen,  anyway.  My  heart  is 
dead." 

"I  believe  it  is,"  Jim  said;  "Miss 
Shoreham  does,  too."  Then  I  laughed, 
and  Jim  says: 

14  Laugh  at  that  poor  little  thing  all 
you  want,  Miss  Higgins;  she  doesn't 
go  out  with  strange  men— 

"  No,  you're  not  a  stranger  to  her 
now,  I  expect." 

Then  he  was  furious.  "  To-morrow," 
he  says,  "  I  write  and  tell  your  mother 
of  your  goings  on."  I  know  it's  just  his 
jealousy.  Then  the  door  opened  and  in 
came  mother.  Dear,  dear,  where  is  she 
going  to  sleep? 

Dec.  4th. — Hart  well  had  to  move, 
and  she  said  we  liked  Marmaduke's 
puppy,  which  does  nothing  but  chew  its 
paws,  better  than  we  do  her.  I'm  hav- 
ing awful  times  teaching  mother  gram- 
mar. She  says  it  ain't  for  it  isn't,  and 
she  do  leave  off  all  her  g's,  but  she 
washes  dishes  lovely,  and  cooks  for  us. 


THE  TOUCHDOWN  129 

Dec.  5th. — Nothing  exciting  has 
happened  for  a  week. 

Dec.  8th. — Mr.  Hopper  came  here 
and  saw  mother.  He  says,  "  This  is  a 
nice,  clever  little  girl  of  yours,"  and 
mother  says,  "  She  seems  to  me  pretty 
nigh  grown-up." 

I  laughed.  '  Why  do  you  always 
talk  so  as  if  you  was  old  as  a  grand- 
father? "  I  says  to  Mr.  Hopper,  and 
he  seemed  to  feel  I'd  hurt  his  dignity. 
After  he'd  gone  I  told  mother  she  ought 
not  to  say  "  nigh  ";  it  was  an  old-fash- 
ioned word. 

"  Ain't  he  a  great  friend  of  yours? " 
she  asked  me — just  like  that. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  says  I,  "he 
ain't  never  took  me  to  supper  yet.  He 
may  be  a  quitter  for  all  I  know.  Men 


is  so  unsincere." 


She   said   she   didn't   like  the   word 
quitter. 

Dec.  20th. — Last  night  so  much  hap- 
pened.    Again  I  saw  him — Barton — 


130       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

Mr.  Barton  Fordham  Jones.  He  met 
me  at  the  stage  entrance  as  I  was 
emerging.  (Lovell  told  me  that  word 
out  of  her  reading.) 

"  Come  to  supper  with  me  at 
Sherry's,  Miss  Higgins?"  he  asked, 
with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"  No,"  says  I,  "  to  Rector's."  I  feel 
more  comfortable  at  Rector's,  and  be- 
sides, I  had  something  to  tell  him.  It 
isn't  stylish  to  talk  at  Sherry's.  Rec- 
tor's is  much  livelier  and  the  women's 
dresses  there  are  just  as  grand.  My 
furs  always  look  kind  of  skimpy  any- 
way wherever  I  am.  Mr.  Jones'  dress 
suit  was  lovely.  He  looked  a  dream, 
and  I  asked  him  how  his  father 
was. 

"  The  old  cove  is  in  Paris,  enjoying 
himself,"  he  said,  "  while  I  am  again  in 
the  good  graces  of  a  Broadway  favor- 
ite." 

:<  I'm  no  favorite,"  I  says  for  a  come- 
back. "  I  may  be  a  hit  with  the  audi- 
ence, but  the  after-theater  bunch  don't 


THE  TOUCHDOWN  131 


Then  I  swept  into  Rector's. 


132       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

take  much  to  me.  You're  not  in  my 
good  graces  either,  tho'  I  may  look  it." 
Then  I  swept  into  Rector's,  wearing 
my  five  dollar  brown  fur  hat  marked 
down  from  ten,  and  with  that  hipless 
coat  dangling  from  my  shoulders.  My 
jewels  was  just  one  old  rhinestone 
buckle,  but  I  swept  just  the  same — so 
hard  I  knocked  down  a  champagne 
bucket  with  the  tail  of  my  skirt.  The 
head  waiter  asked  what  Queen  of  Song 
I  was.  Everybody  rubbered. 

Mr.  Jones  had  engaged  one  of  those 
side  tables  next  the  mirrors,  with  the 
little  pink  lamps  with  bead  dew-dads 
hanging  on  them.  In  this  soft  aristo- 
cratick  light  I  looked  my  loveliest.  I 
heard  somebody  tell  a  man  that  I  was 
"  Higgins,  who  has  a  song  all  her  own 
way,  at  one  of  those  Casino  leg  shows," 
and  I  knew  this  was  fame. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Jones,"  I  hit  out,  "  I'm 
eating  your  oysters,  and  I  feel  as  cosy 
and  warm  at  your  entertainment  as  a 
fly  in  a  plate  of  ice-cream,  but  I  want 


THE  TOUCHDOWN  133 

to  tell  you  just  this,  I  have  cared  about 
you,  and  that  is  why  I  accept  your  en- 
tertainments— just  to  recall  the  dead 
past.  But  now  I  don't  care  no  more, 
and  all  sentiment  must  be  cut  out  be- 
tween us." 

"  Now,  Minnie,"  he  says,  "  don't  give 
me  the  marble  mitt  like  that.  It  makes 
me  feel  cold  all  over  as  I  take  it,  but 
everything  you  say  goes." 

But  the  music  began  to  play  up  there 
in  that  little  hole  in  the  ceiling,  and  I 
was  almost  sorry  he  took  me  at  my 
word.  He  began  to  tell  me  about  his 
college  scrapes  and  they  was  awful 
slow.  I  turned  around  and  looked  at  a 
real  Queen  of  Song,  who  was  sweeping 
in,  in  the  gen-u-ine  thing.  She  was  so 
big  and  blonde  she  made  the  men  with 
her  look  like  the  little  round  balloons 
hitched  on  to  a  Fourth  of  July  kite. 
There  were  rows  of  jet  trimmings 
mixed  with  a  pearl  necklace,  and  a  lot 
of  lace  hanging  down  over  her  chest, 
and  there  was  room  on  her  skirt  for 


134       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

three  different  rows  of  fluted  ribbon 
each  a  foot  apart.  Her  white  gloves 
reached  almost  up  to  her  shoulders,  and 
in  the  back  was  a  V-shaped — it  was  an 
empire  with  a  wasp  waist,  and  on  her 
head  was  a  pink  hat  with  a  shower  of 
pink  feathers,  and  one  falling  to  her 
neck,  three  or  four  feet  long. 

"Are  you  looking  at  Feathers?" 
Mr.  Jones  asked.  "  She  is  a  real  suc- 
cess. She  is  getting  four  hundred  dol- 
lars a  week  for  singing  an  hour  a  night 
in  vodeville." 

I  leaned  back  and  looked  at  her. 
"  That  is  a  lot,"  says  I.  "  I  guess  I 
never  will  be  earning  four  hundred  dol- 
lars a  week,  but  I  guess  I  don't  want  to, 
if  I  have  to  deck  myself  out  like  a  Har- 
lem Christmas  tree.  See  the  lights  in 
her  ears.  I  wouldn't  dare  face  myself 
in  the  dark  with  all  that  on.  Seems  as 
if  some  people  had  no  retireingness  in 
their  natures."  And  I  looked  down  at 
my  rhinestone  buckle  and  sighed.  I 
knew  I  was  jealous. 


THE  TOUCHDOWN  135 

"  You're  looking  awfully  well  to- 
night," says  he,  and  they  began  to  play 
"  Salome."  Miss  Wyncote  was  there 
with  a  party,  all  diked  out,  eating  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  where  everyone  had 
to  stop  and  give  them  the  high-sign  as 
they  went  out.  The  women  were  all 
talking  and  laughing,  and  there  were 
pink,  green  and  blue  in  the  party,  and 
Miss  Wyncote  in  black  and  white  was 
the  picture  of  health.  She  looked  over 
at  me  and  smiled  as  one  who  would  say, 
"  Well,  well,  little  one."  And  Grand- 
court  and  Lovell  came  in  with  one  man 
between  them  who  didn't  even  know  the 
waiters.  The  owner  of  our  show  was 
suppering  with  another  man  and  he 
looked  as  if  my  stocks  had  gone  up,  be- 
cause I  was  with  Mr.  Jones.  So  I 
looked  at  Barton  flirtatiously  from 
under  my  fur  mushroom  and  toyed  with 
my  baked  shad  elegantly,  but  all  I  was 
saying  was : 

"  Gee,  but  it's  noisy  in  here.    No  one 
seems  to  mind  if  you  stare  at  'em  at  all. 


136       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

I  guess  the  whole  thing's  a  press 
agent's  dream  anyway.  Pipe  the  dia- 
monds." 

Then  I  looked  up,  and  who  was  star- 
ing at  me  hard  but  Jim  Burns,  sitting 
there  with  his  second-hand  Tuxedo,  and 
his  white  tie,  and  at  the  table  with  him 
was  the  Idiot  Child,  wearing  a  new  silk 
shirtwaist  and  a  pink  "  Widow  "  with 
one  red  rose  on  it.  I  most  died  inside, 
laughing  and  crying  both.  She  looked 
so  contented  and  admiring.  So  I  just 
nodded  to  Jim — quick  like  that  and 
went  on  talking.  I  wasn't  in  for  no  sour 
grapes  act.  I  didn't  want  to  spoil  her 
little  game,  but  it  did  kinder  hurt  when 
they  both  leaned  over  and  began  to  talk 
to  each  other,  as  if  I  was  some  sort  of 
hoodoo  bird  flying  around  outside.  But 
the  music  was  playing,  and  I  was  eat- 
ing my  truffled  grouse,  and  then  I 
looked  up  and  saw — hold  me  up  while  I 
write  it — two  people  came  jogging 
down  the  aisle  and  took  a  table  across 
the  room  from  us,  and  one  was  Harry 


THE  TOUCHDOWN 


137 


Hopper  in  a  dress  suit  and  the  other 
was  my  mother. 

'  What's  the  matter,  you've  gone 
white !  "  says  Mr.  Jones  to  me,  with  one 
of  his  sentimental  looks.  I  didn't  know 
what  to  do.  A  girl  can't  be  ready  for 
everything.  Even  if  she's  got  plenty  of 
guff.  You  see,  mother  had  on  her  rusty 
old  black  silk  dress,  and  her  little  best 
bonnet  with  the  grapes  she'd  worn  for 
three  years  out  in  Paris,  Ohio.  And 
right  at  the  table  next  her  sat  the  Queen 
of  Song  that  was  getting  four  hundred 
dollars  a  week  in  vodeville,  and  every- 
body admired  so  much.  Mother's  front 
hair  was  false.  And  it  looked  it.  And 
she  had  a  nice  little  polite  smile  on  her 
face,  the  kind  she  used  at  church  soci- 
ables at  home,  tho'  I  could  see  she  was 
scared  behind  her  spectacles,  at  all  the 
gilt,  and  the  red,  wriggly  car-pet,  and 
the  champagne  buckets  and  things. 

Harry  Hopper  had  the  most  polite 
smile,  too,  and  he  was  leaning  toward 
her  and  talking  as  if  she  was  the  whole 


138      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

cheese,  but  everyone  was  laughing  at 
them,  and  you  could  see  by  that  little 
smile  on  his  face  that  he  knew  it,  and  he 
didn't  care  a  bit.  He  was  just  having 
the  time  of  his  life,  and  imagining  he 
was  in  a  play.  Don't  I  know  the  feel- 
ing, don't  I  have  it  every  now  and  then  ? 
Wasn't  I  having  it  just  a  minute  ago 
when  they  were  playing  "  Salome  "  up 
there  in  the  hole  over  our  heads,  but  his 
was  a  different  kind  of  a  play,  and  it 
was  all  because  she  was  so  differ- 
ent, and  nobody  had  ever  had  a  per- 
son like  that  in  there  for  late  supper 
before. 

I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  couldn't 
make  myself  go  over  there  and  own  up 
she  was  my  mother  before  the  whole 
crowd,  tho'  I  knew  I  ought  to.  Miss 
Wyncote's  party  was  looking,  and 
there  was  the  owner  of  the  show  and  my 
career  to  re-coll-ect,  and  all  the  men  at 
the  tables  who  knew  who  I  was,  and 
would  laugh,  and  Mr.  Jones,  and 
Grandcourt,  and  all.  Here  was  every- 


THE  TOUCHDOWN  139 

one  else  diked  out  like  Newport,  and 
mother  looking  like  Paris,  Ohio.  I 
was  dressed  bad  enough,  goodness 
knows.  And  it  looked  so  funny  her  be- 
ing there  anyway.  I  just  wished  I 
could  crawl  under  the  table. 

"  Do  you  know  Harry  Hopper? " 
says  Mr.  Jones.  "  He's  a  great  fellow. 
Always  up  to  some  joke  or  other. 
Wonder  who  that  freak  is  with  him  to- 
night." 

I  choked  on  a  chunk  of  bread,  and 
Jim  was  looking  over  at  me,  with  the 
most  shocked  expression  I  ever  saw. 
Then  Harry  Hopper  saw  me,  he'd  been 
looking  around,  and  came  over  to  my 
table.  All  the  time  he  was  coming  I 
stared  down  at  my  plate,  wondering 
what  I'd  do.  When  he  got  there  he 
didn't  look  jokey  at  all. 

"  Good  evening,  Jones,"  he  said,  and 
shook  hands  as  solemn  as  a  preacher. 
:<  I  didn't  know  you  and  Miss  Higgins 
had  made  up." 

"  We  haven't,"  I  snapped.     "  What 


140       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

did  you  do  it  for? "  He  knew  what  I 
meant. 

"  We  were  waiting  for  you  at  the 
stage  entrance,"  he  said.  "  It  was  to  be 
a  surprise  for  you,"  he  says. 

"  It  is,"  said  I.  "  What  were  you 
saying,  Mr.  Jones?"  I  was  that  cool 
as  if  I  had  swallowed  a  little  kicking 
devil.  Mr.  Hopper  turned  red,  but  the 
owner  of  "  The  Babes  "  and  everybody 
in  their  grand  clothes  was  looking,  and 
I  just  couldn't  go  over  there  and  let 
on  she  was  my  mother,  following  me 
up,  dressed  in  that  kind  of  a  bum 
outfit. 

"  'Tisn't  appropriate  here  for  old 
folks,"  I  said,  after  a  minute.  "  They 
should  be  in  bed."  I  felt  as  mean  as 
the  shrimp  in  my  salad.  Mr.  Jones 
laughed.  I  saw  Jim  had  gone  over  to 
talk  to  mother,  and  another  man  had 
taken  his  place  with  the  Idiot  Child,  and 
I  hoped  there  wouldn't  be  no  harsh 
words. 

"  That's  so,"  says  Mr.  Jones.  "  Who 


THE  TOUCHDOWN 

is  the  old  party,  Hopper?  Give  me  an 
introduction." 

"  Not  at  all,"  says  Mr.  Hopper,  "  un- 
less you  and  Miss  Higgins  will  join  us 
at  our  table." 

Mr.  Jones  got  mad. 

"  Oh,  stop  butting  in,  Hopper,"  says 
he.  "  I've  ordered  Miss  Higgins'  sup- 
per, and  I'm  going  to  enjoy  her  com- 
pany." 

They  just  stood  and  glared  at  each 
other,  and  everybody  rubbered  at  us.  I 
seemed  quite  a  heroine  to  everybody  but 
little  Minnie  herself.  I  felt  inside  like 
the  sequel  to  a  story  where  the  heroine 
died  young.  I  didn't  say  nothing  as  I 
should  have  done,  and  the  minute 
passed  and  Mr.  Hopper  went  back. 
The  owner  of  the  "  Babes  "  bowed  and 
smiled  to  me,  when  he  saw  I  knew  Mr. 
Hopper,  and  everybody  laughed  as  they 
looked  over  at  Mr.  Hopper's  table,  and 
in  my  heart  I  grew  harder  and  madder 
every  minute.  I  wouldn't  look  at 
mother  because  I  knew  just  how  hurt 


DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

she  was  looking.  And  Jim  Burns 
pulled  the  man  out  of  the  chair  that  had 
taken  his  place. 

Then  they  played  "  Salome  "  again, 
and  I  thought  I  was  glad  I  was  with 
Mr.  Jones.  Well,  we  finished  that  din- 
ner even  to  coffee  frapays,  and  I  swept 
out  of  the  place  with  him,  just  swish- 
ing my  messaline  silk  skirt  and  no 
one  had  had  a  chance  to  laugh  at  me.  I 
hadn't  given  them  no  chance  to  act 
snobbish  to  me. 

"  I  believe  you  like  me  best  after  all, 
Minnie,"  says  the  Jones  boy,  as  we 
stood  on  the  curb.  "  Shall  we  take  a 
spin  before  we  go  home?  I'll  get  Mc- 
Cann  and  the  others." 

"  No,  I'm  going  straight  home,"  says 
I,  stamping  my  foot.  There  was  a  raw 
wind  blowing.  '  Take  me  straight 
home.  I'm  only  stuck  on  you,  when 
you  don't  say  or  do  anything.  I  want 
to  go  straight  home."  So  he  took  me 
out  to  "  The  Violet  "  and  I  went  in  and 
lighted  the  light  in  our  apartment,  and 


THE  TOUCHDOWN  143 

there  was  no  one  there  but  Marma- 
duke's  puppy  chewing  up  one  of  Lov- 
ell's  slippers.  It  sounded  so  lonesome. 
After  awhile  I  heard  them  stumbling 
over  a  baby  buggy  and  mother  and  Mr. 
Hopper  came  in. 

"  How  dared  you,"  I  said  to  him, 
"  how  dared  you  take  my  mother  to  that 
restaurant  at  this  time  of  night?  " 

"  It  was  sort  of  a  loud  looking  place," 
said  mother.  "  I  never  saw  none  like 
it  at  Paris,  Ohio."  She  was  looking  all 
kind  of  puzzled  and  tired  out. 

"  Well,  you  were  there,"  said  Mr. 
Hopper,  taking  in  my  tragedy  queen 
attitude,  and  the  silk  scarf  thrown 
around  my  shoulders,  for  they  always 
turn  the  heat  off  at  midnight  in  these 
$40  ones.  ff  You  were  there!  "  he  says. 
"  We  had  an  awful  time  finding  you, 
Minnie,"  said  mother.  "  We  wouldn't 
have  gone  in  there,  I  wanted  to  go  to 
Child's,  where  I  feel  more  at  home,  ex- 
cept somebody  told  us  you  was  there, 
then  you  wouldn't  speak  to  me  at  all." 


144       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  angry 
at  me?  "  said  Harry  Hopper,  his  eyes 
blazing.  Mother  took  Marmaduke's 
puppy  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be?"  says  I. 
'  What  are  you  to  me  that  I  should 
stand  your  making  fun  of  us,"  I  said, 
so  mad  I  was  seeing  red.  "  You  made 
me  ashamed  of  my  mother  and  her  old- 
fashioned  clothes  and  I'll  never  forgive 
you."  I  burst  out  crying. 

He  took  a  step  toward  me  and  I  felt 
him  coming. 

"  Leave  this  room — forever,"  I  said, 
stamping  my  foot.  "  It's  all  I've  got, 
this  little  home,  and  you  shan't  make 
fun  of  it.  Leave  this  house,  I 
say." 

And  you  could  have  knocked  me 
down  with  a  feather,  for  he  did  go.  I 
heard  him  go  out  the  door,  and  then  I 
knew  I  was  losing  my  best  friend  and 
I  couldn't  bear  to  lose  him,  and  I  ran 
out  into  the  hall  after  him.  I  caught 
hold  of  his  sleeve.  My  breath  was  gone. 


THE  TOUCHDOWN  145 


"  I  love  you  well  enough  to  come  buck— and  stay." 


146      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

"  Don't — you  like  me  well  enough  to 
come  back?  "  I  says. 

"  My  dear  little  girl,"  he  says,  "  I 
love  you  well  enough  to  come  back — 
and  stay." 

And  Marmaduke's  puppy  was  the 
first  one  to  come  nosing  around  out 
there  in  the  hall  and  find  out  we  were 
engaged.  It  wasn't  at  all  like  real  life 
on  the  stage.  But  I  knew  I  cared  for 
Mr.  Hopper  the  minute  that  Jones  boy 
began  to  unwind  those  moth-eaten  col- 
lege yarns  of  his.  This  world  is  an 
awful  queer  place,  things  you  expect  to 
happen  never  do,  and  things  you  don't 
expect  to  happen  never  don't.  I  got  a 
note  from  Mr.  Hopper  just  now  and 
it's  true,  honest.  I  hope  he  isn't  unsin- 
cere.  I  don't  believe  I  ought  to  let  him 
do  it. 


VI 

THE  GOAL  KICK 

JAN.  2nd. — Harry  Hopper  says  my 
dance  in  the  Pickaninnies'  song  is  a 
cinch,  but  I  ought  to  look  at  the  audi- 
ance,  he  says,  some  more  than  I  do;  he 
says  the  audiance  don't  never  like  to 
feel  it's  forgotten. 

Jan.  4th. — Harry  Hopper  says  when 
he  was  a  little  boy  back  in  Laredo, 
Texas,  his  father  owned  a  stock  farm, 
and  he  ran  away.  They  caught  him  up 
in  Houston  in  a  vodeville  house,  singing 
coon  songs  to  an  accordian  accompani- 
ment. He  says  those  good  old  days  is 
past,  but  there  is  just  as  good  a-coming. 
He  says  there's  no  use  telling  Old  Bill 
and  the  owner  of  the  show  or  the  other 
girls  in  the  "  beauty  chorus  of  forty," 
that  we're  engaged  yet.  He  says  it 

147 


148      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

might  be  embarrassing  for  me.    I  don't 
see  why.     But  he  knows. 

Jan.  6th. — He  says  I  can  come  every 
Thursday  afternoon  when  he  acts  and 
watch  him — if  I  can  live  through  it.  I 
could  watch  him  act  all  night,  and  over 
the  next  day,  and  forget  to  .eat  my 
breakfast.  I  think  he  thinks  a  lot  of 
me. 

Jan.  7th. — Holiday  trade  was  pretty 
good  for  "  The  Babes."  Miss  Wyn- 
cote  keeps  awfully  well.  I  can't  think 
of  nothing  but  Harry.  I  guess  I've 
got  it  bad.  But  I'm  going  to  have  a 
career  just  the  same.  He  says  so. 

Jan.  8th. — Last  night  he  told  me  he's 
going  to  have  a  new  comic  opera.  A 
playwright  and  a  musician  are  getting 
together  and  in  about  a  week  it'll  be 
done.  He  says  he's  tired  of  '  The 
Under  Dog."  It's  going  to  be  a  Dutch 
comic  opera,  all  in  Delft  scenery,  and 
with  Dutch  costumes,  then  I  sighed. 


THE  GOAL  KICK  149 

"What's  up?"  he  says— just  like 
that. 

"  Nothing,"  says  I,  trying  not  to  be 
a  baby. 

"  Yes,  there  is/'  he  says.  "  Pull  it 
out.  I've  got  to  see  it,  and  know  what 
it's  like." 

"  Well,"  says  I,  "  there  was  a  song  in 
our  show  that  I  sung  in  Paris,  Ohio, 
and  I  wore  a  pair  of  Dutch  bloomers  in 
it,  and  I  liked  it,  and  I  got  an  encore 
in  it,  and  it — went — 

"  Wilhelmina,  Wilhelmina, 

Listen  to  what  I  say, 
Don't  be  mean,  my  little  Dutch  Queen, 

But  name  our  wedding  day. 
When  you're  near,  my  heart  feels  queer, 

Half  dead  with  love  I  am, 
When   I  hear  the  click  of  your  little  wooden 

shoes 
On  the  tiles  of  Amsterdam." 

I  said  I  liked  it  much  better  than  I  did 

' '  I  am  a 

Alabama 

Pickaninny." 


150      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

And  he  said  he  wasn't  surprised,  the 
tune  had  more  snap,  and  he  said  who 
wrote  it.  I  said  Mr.  Orden  did. 

"Oh,  him!  He'll  charge  all  that's 
coming  for  it,"  says  he,  "  but  he  may 
want  it  in  a  good  production  and  we'll 
get  it  for  you,  for  this  new  comic  opera 
is  called  '  Brigands  of  Delft,'  "  he  says, 
"  and  you're  to  be  in  it." 

Jan.  10th. — I'm  drawing  salary  al- 
ready for  "  The  Brigands  of  Delft  "- 
you  may  knock  me  down  with  a  feather 
— it's  fifty  a  week.  That  sure  takes 
the  lead.  I  wonder  what  Fritzi  Scheff 
gets.  But  rehearsals  begin  soon,  and 
Old  Bill  and  the  owner  of  "The 
Babes  "  and  all  the  others  have  got  to 
be  told.  But  I'm  so  rich  I  can  hardly 
sleep  nights.  Mama  says  she  knew 
Harry  Hopper's  intentions  was  serious 
when  he  began  hauling  her  around  to 
Caffees  at  midnight.  Lovell  says  she 
supposes  I  have  a  "  far  more  sentimen- 
tal disposition  than  shows  on  the  sur- 


THE  GOAL  KICK  151 

faces."  Hartwell  says  it  can't  be  a  re- 
ward of  virtue,  for  she's  so  virtuous  it 
makes  her  creepy,  and  Molly  says  she 
"  don't  see  how  I  done  it." 

Jan.  llth. — The  owner  got  in  the 
wings  last  night  after  the  show  was  over. 
He  said,  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen  "  —we 
was  all  gathered  around  four  deep,  and 
somebody  stepped  on  Miss  Wyncote's 
train,  and  she  threw  a  fit—  "  Ladies  and 
gents,"  he  says,  "  I  have  to  announce 
that  '  The  Babes,'  after  an  un-pre-ce- 
dented  run  of  many  months,  must  fulfill 
its  engagements  on  the  road,  and  we  all 
leave  for  Boston  next  Saturday  night. 
Stop  crowding  there,  girls,  and  if  you 
hear  anyone  say  this  house  has  been 
packed  with  paper  for  the  past  fort- 
night, you  give  'em  the  ha-ha,"  and 
that's  the  first  I  knew  that  it  had.  He 
didn't  say  ha-ha — only  I  can't  remem- 
ber his  grand  words.  Anyway,  he  said 
New  York  would  miss  us,  and  poor  old 
Broadway,  he  said,  would  miss  us,  never 


152      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

had  there  been  such  a  beauty  chorus, 
and  some  of  the  girls  who  hadn't  been 
asked  out  to  supper  at  all  said,  "  Oh, 
get  a  transfer."  But  we  all  got  to  feel- 
ing so  sorry  for  poor  old  Broadway  that 
we  just  pitied  those  that  had  to  live  on 
in  New  York  without  us. 

Harry  Hopper  asked  me  if  I  had 
a  contract  with  them,  and  I  said, 
"  What's  that? "  and  he  said,  "  Oh!  all 
right." 

Jan.  12th. — We  moved  again  to-day 
because  I'm  so  rich.  We  moved  to  this 
a-partment  further  down-town.  The 
house  is  called  "  The  Lady  Jane  Grey," 
and  there  aren't  no  baby  buggies  in  the 
hall.  We  left  Lovell  and  Molly  behind, 
but  we  brought  Marmaduke's  puppy. 
He's  got  a  sharp  nose,  and  a  funny 
black  tail,  he's  all  black,  and  I  don't 
know  what  he  is.  Folks  laugh  when  I 
take  him  on  the  end  of  a  string.  This 
is  a  grand  place.  Gee,  my  clothes  do 
look  kind  of  shabby  here.  I  went  and 


THE  GOAL  KICK  153 

bought  a  dress  at  Altman's  and  paid 
$55.00  for  it — I  mean  they  sent  it 
C.O.D.  There  are  mirrors  let  into  the 
wall  in  the  bed-rooms,  and  all  the  furni- 
ture is  first-hand.  As  soon  as  we  got 
our  trunks  in,  mother  went  and  called 
on  the  folks  across  the  hall.  She  said 
she  felt  real  neighborly.  The  folks  was 
out.  At  least  they  said  they  was. 

Jan.  13th. — They  gave  me  some 
money  on  my  "  Brigands  "  salary  in  ad- 
vance, so  I  took  mother  and  went  down- 
town. First  I  took  her  to  a  manicure 
place,  and  after  they'd  done  my  nails,  I 
made  her  let  them  do  hers.  She  said 
she  never  could  get  the  half -moons  to 
show,  but  the  lady  who  did  them  said 
what  had  already  been  done  couldn't 
be  helped.  Then  I  went  in  and  had  my 
hair  waved  all  around  my  head  like 
Miss  Wyncote  does  hers — Marcel  they 
call  it.  It  took  a  long  time  to  Marcel 
me  and  mother  went  to  sleep,  but  I 
woke  her  up  and  said  she  had  to  have 


154      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

hers  Marcel  too.  "  Now,  Minnie,"  says 
she,  "  there  ain't  no  need  of  spendin'  all 
that  money  on  me.  And  I  don't  want 
to  take  off  my  front  piece  and  let  that 
lady  see  how  little  hair  I  got."  But  I 
said,  "  Now,  mother,  you  got  to.  It's 
all  the  go  now,  and  we  must  be  in  the 
style  or  bust,  as  long  as  we're  staying  at 
the  Lady  Jane  Grey."  So  then  she 
gave  in,  and  she  and  the  lady  had  a  nice 
talk  while  she  was  doing  her  hair,  and 
mother  told  her  all  about  how  many 
chickens  she  raised  in  her  back  yard  in 
Paris,  Ohio,  in  one  summer.  It  didn't 
take  long  to  Marcel  her  hair. 

Then  I  took  her  over  to  Fliegal  & 
Snooper's  and  picked  her  out  a  hat. 
She  said  she  didn't  want  to  go,  as  it  was 
twelve  o'clock,  and  she  always  felt  like 
dinner  at  twelve  o'clock,  besides  she 
didn't  need  a  new  hat,  that  she  guessed 
Harry  Hopper  didn't  care  what  kind 
of  a  hat  she  wore,  and  I  said: 

"  Now,  mother,  you  shut  up.  You 
know  I'm  not  thinking  of  whether 


THE  GOAL  KICK  155 

Harry  Hopper  cares  or  not,  but  I  guess 
we're  rich  now,  and  you  can  have 
clothes." 

Then  the  shop-lady  and  I  had  her  try 
on  hats.  The  shop-lady  said  she  knew 
just  what  would  suit  mother.  First  she 
brought  out  a  pale  pink  hat,  with  some 
grey  veiling  around  the  crown,  and  then 
it  had  some  pink  roses  under  the  brim. 
It  was  a  sweet  hat.  But  mother  got 
obstinate.  She  said  it  was  too  small  for 
her,  and  she  didn't  like  pink  anyway; 
then  the  shop-lady  tried  a  great  big 
black  one  with  a  gilt  buckle  on  her  and 
said,  "  Ain't  that  lovely?  Just  what 
you  want,  madam." 

But  mother  said  it  hurt  her  head  and 
the  shop-lady  said,  "  I  don't  see  how 
that  can  be.  It's  an  imported  hat, 
madam,"  and  we  had  an  awful  time. 
But  at  last  the  shop-lady  got  so  cross 
we  bought  a  little  black  one  with  a  white 
pompom  on,  and  mother  said  she  wished 
father  could  see  her  now.  Then  we 
went  and  had  lunch  at  Mo-kan's.  I 


156       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

thought  we  might  as  well  as  long  as  I 
had  the  money.  Then  I  took  mother 
up  to  Macy's  and  bought  a  dress  for 
her.  The  shop-lady  said,  "  Why,  yes, 
dearie,  I  have  just  the  very  thing. 
Something  dressy,  you  say? "  Then 
she  said  mother  ought  to  wear  corsets, 
but  mother  said  she  wouldn't  because 
they  gave  her  dyspepsia.  We  tried  a 
blue  umpire  on  her  and  she  looked 
sweet,  but  she  liked  a  gray  one  best,  be- 
cause it  didn't  have  so  much  trimming 
on  it,  but  it  went  in  at  the  waist.  I 
don't  know  whether  it  cost  forty  or 
fifty  dollars,  but  I'll  know  to-morrow 
morning  for  it's  coming  then,  C.O.D. 
Well,  I  said  I'd  take  the  gray  one  and 
the  shop-lady  kissed  us  good-bye.  Then 
we  went  into  a  glove  place  and  I  bought 
her  some  tan  ones,  and  I  bought  my- 
self some  embroidered  silk  stockings 
C.O.D.,  and  some  more  things,  for,  of 
course,  I'll  be  walking  on  Fifth  Ave- 
nue a  lot  when  I'm  one  of  the  principals 
in  "  The  Brigands."  Then  we  went 


THE  GOAL  KICK  157 

home  and  cooked  our  supper.  Mother 
said  she  didn't  hardly  like  to  use  her 
hands,  and  then  I  hurried  around  to 
the  theater.  In  the  dressing-room  I 
got  one  of  those  silly  spells  when  you 
can't  keep  things  to  yourself  no  longer, 
and  told  some  of  the  girls  not  to  tell 
anybody  else,  but  I  was  engaged.  They 
wouldn't  believe  it  when  I  said  Harry 
Hopper.  I  can't  sleep  to-night,  think- 
ing of  those  embroidered  silk  stockings 
coming  to-morrow  and  all  those  things 
for  mother. 

Jan.  14th. — Well,  they  all  came. 
Harry  was  sitting  on  our  dining-room 
table,  making  fun  of  the  pictures,  when 
the  bell  began  ringing.  Mother  went  to 
the  door.  First,  it  was  my  dress  from 
Altman's  and  I  paid  for  it.  We  opened 
the  box  and  he  said  he  thought  I  would 
look  a  real  Queen  of  Society  in  it,  but 
no  one  would  notice  it  across  the  street. 
Then  I  cried.  I'm  such  a  greenie. 
What's  the  use  of  clothes  if  they  aren't 


158       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

noticed?  Then  it  was  mother's  tan 
gloves  and  I  paid  for  them,  but  mother 
couldn't  get  them  on,  because  of  rheu- 
matism in  one  of  her  fingers.  Then  the 
bell  rang  again,  and  gee — there  was 
Lovell  and  Molly.  They  said  it  was  a. 
fine  place  for  parties,  and  the  beer  pan- 
try was  a  regular  scream.  They  said 
they'd  be  down  Saturday  night,  if  Mr. 
Hopper  would  invite  the  gentlemen. 

Harry  said  he  only  knew  two  gentle- 
men who  weren't  engaged  for  Saturday 
night,  and  they  were  both  rounders,  but 
he  couldn't  ask  them  anyway,  because 
the  "  Babes  "  were  going  to  Boston  Sat- 
urday night.  Then  we  all  sang  coon 
songs  a  while  and  Molly  made  believe 
the  dish-pan  was  a  drum.  Then  the  bell 
rang  and  it  was  my  embroidered  stock- 
ings and  lots  of  other  things  came. 
Lovell  was  in  trying  the  couch  in  the 
parlor,  and  I  counted  and  found  I  had 
spent  every  bit  of  my  money. 

"  Now,  Miss  Higgins,"  says  I  to  my- 
self, "  there  ain't  no  rhino  left  to  buy 


THE  GOAL  KICK 


159 


160      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

no  provisions  with.  You've  gone  and 
spent  like  a  millionaire,  when  all  you 
had  was  an  ordinary  salary.  Let  it  be  a 
lesson  to  you." 

Then  the  bell  rang  and  Molly  ran 
and  brought  in  a  box.  It  was  mother's 
dress.  Everyone  rubbered  at  it  and  she 
was  trying  it  on,  when  the  boy  walked 
right  in  and  said,  "  What 're  you  givin' 
us?  I  want  my  money.  This  ain't  no 
Christmas  gift." 

Harry  began  to  look  out  the  win- 
dows, and  I  didn't  know  what  to  do. 
Molly  looked  so  surprised.  "  You'll 
have  to  shell  out,  Min,"  she  says.  But 
there  wasn't  any  shell  to  me.  That's 
what  being  rich  comes  to. 

"  I'll  lend  you  the  money,"  says 
Harry,  in  a  dignified  voice,  and  he  went 
and  paid  the  bill.  I  couldn't  say  noth- 
ing, and  after  awhile  they  all  went 
home. 

Jan.  15th. — I  went  down  alone  to  the 
matinee  to-day  in  my  new  Altman 


THE  GOAL  KICK  161 

dress,  and  went  up  behind  the  scenes  be- 
tween acts.  There  was  a  strange  young 
lady  in  Harry's  dressing-room.  She 
had  on  a  most  stylish  gown.  She  was 
laughing  and  said,  '  Thank  you,  so 
much.  Then  we  will  go  together,  or 
shall  I  meet  you  there?  "  I  didn't  wait 
to  hear  no  more,  but  just  came  home 
here  and  took  to  my  bed.  But  there 
ain't  no  comfort  in  this  world  for  a 
chorus  girl.  I  had  to  get  up  and  go 
kicking  with  those  Bats  as  usual. 

Jan.  16th. — I  haven't  seen  him  all 
day.  I  wonder  if  it's  her  reshershey 
figure  or  the  clothes  she  wore  that  at- 
tracted him.  I  suppose  all  black  is  ele- 
gant. Men  is  so  unsincere.  Anyway 
I've  got  that  contract  with  the  manager 
of  the  "  Brigands  "  he  got  for  me.  But 
I  don't  know  as  I  want  to  be  in  "  The 
Brigands "  if  I've  lost  his  love.  I 
wished  I'd  never  met  him.  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  Mother  thinks  I've  got  the 
tooth-ache.  There  isn't  much  to  eat 


162       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

anyway.  I  suppose  he  thought  my 
spending  all  that  money  was  kind  of 
immoral.  I  just  hate  my  Altman  dress. 
I'd  tear  it  up  if  he  wanted  me  to.  When 
I  got  to  the  dressing-room  to-night  all 
the  girls  thought  they  knew  and  they 
began  kidding  me. 

"  Say,  Gene  vie  ve,"  says  one  without 
turning  away  from  the  glass,  "  have  you 
heard  about  Min  Higgins  ?  She's  had  a 
dream  that  she's  engaged  to  Harry 
Hopper,  and  she  b'lieves  it." 

"  Yes,  I  heard  that,"  says  Grand- 
court.  "  She's  got  him  mixed  up  with 
Mr.  Bowsox  of  Hoboken,  who  says 
it'll  have  to  be  a  Harlem  flat — or  Jer- 
sey Heights.  What  are  you  going 
to  give  her  for  a  wedding  present, 
Lucille?" 

"  Oh,  me?  A  package  of  her  favor- 
ite chewing-gum,  I  guess.  Or  would 
you  rather  have  an  opera  box,  Min- 
nie?" 

And  so  the  merry  joke  went  round. 
And  a  lot  of  them  that  liked  me  got 


THE  GOAL  KICK  163 

kind  of  affectionate  and  helped  me 
dress.  They  believed  the  engagement. 

"  Is  it  so,  what  Molly  says,  that  if 
Harry  Hopper  told  you  to  jump  off 
the  Flatiron  building,  you'd  do  it?" 
one  of  the  Butterfly s  piped. 

"  Yes,"  I  said  after  a  minute;  it  made 
me  feel  good  to  say  it,  tho'  I  don't  know. 
Perhaps  he'll  never  speak  to  me  again. 

"  Say,  Min,"  said  the  one  we  call 
Bandy-legs,  "  do  you  like  him  so  well 
that  if  another  fellow  offered  you  two 
automobiles  and  a  summer  mansion  up 
The  Hudson,  you'd  take  him  anyway — 
even  if  the  other  bloke  had  a  yacht?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  says  out  real  loud,  hooking 
on  my  wings. 

"  Gee,  it's  the  real  thing! "  says 
Mabel  Murphy.  "  And  say,  Kid,  if  he 
told  you  you  was  a  real  genius,  would 
you  believe  him?  "  But  they  all  laughed 
so  quick  I  remembered  and  didn't  say 
yes. 

Pretty  soon  we  got  in  the  wings  and 
Old  Bill  passed  me,  and  said,  "  Con- 


164       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

gratulations,  Miss  Higgins,"  in  a  sort 
of  sarcastic  tone  as  if  he  didn't  believe 
it.  I  didn't  blame  him  any,  but  I  seen 
how  they'd  all  been  told.  And  Mr. 
Smith  said,  "  Angel-face,  how  could 
you  take  Harry  Hopper  when  you 
might  have  had  me?  " 

"  It  is  surprising,  ain't  it?  "  I  owned, 
throwing  back  my  head  and  laughing. 
Then  between  acts  the  owner  of  the 
show  comes  up  to  me.  He  is  smiling 
and  looking  more  polite  to  me  than  I 
ever  saw  him  in  all  the  time  I'd  known 
him. 

"  Miss  Higgins,"  he  says,  shaking 
my  paw,  "  you  have  my  hearty  congrat- 
ulations. We  must  give  you  a  party — 
you  and  Mr.  Hopper,  before  we  go." 

Now,  wouldn't  that  give  you  a  fit, 
turning  over  backwards  off  a  loop  the 
loop  and  landing  on  a  floating  island? 
I  was  dazed  to  the  pulp  you  read  about. 
I  saw  he  meant  it.  He'd  heard  the 
news,  but  he  believed  it.  He  didn't 
doubt  it  at  all — not  near  as  much  as  I 


THE  GOAL  KICK  165 

did,  shivering  there  in  my  Bat  costume; 
and  why  didn't  he  care,  if  he'd  found 
out  I  was  going  to  leave  "  The  Babes," 
and  he  was  going  to  give  me  a  party? 
A  party !  Me !  I  wondered  right  there 
what  kind  it  was  going  to  be.  I'd  al- 
ways heard  he  was  such  a  pincher. 
After  the  show  he  invited  us  all.  "  To- 
morrow night,"  he  said,  "  we  will  have  a 
supper  here  on  the  stage,  in  honor  of 
the  engagement  of  Miss  Minnie  Hig- 
gins,  after  the  show,  in  honor  of  herself 
and  her  fiance,  Mr.  Harry  Hopper." 

Say,  you'd  have  thought  he  had  made 
the  match  himself. 

The  company  all  clapped ;  I  was  that 
phoney  I  clapped  too.  And  everybody 
laughed  and  began  to  flatter  me.  I  got 
together  my  clothes  and  went  home. 
Say,  I  wouldn't  do  a  thing  to  that  fine 
figure  in  the  all-black  dress,  if  she'd 
knock  at  my  door.  Why  doesn't  he 
come  and  say  good-bye  anyway?  I 
should  think  he'd  want  to  see  mother  in 
her  new  things. 


166      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

Later. — I'm  not  going  to  care;  I'm 
going  to  make  the  house  rise  at  me,  and 
I'm  going  to  make  him  watch  "  The 
click  of  those  little  wooden  shoes  on  the 
tiles  of  Amsterdam." 

Jan.  18th. — I've  got  so  much  to  write 
I  don't  feel  as  if  the  brain-waves  under 
my  gilt  roof  is  resting  just  easy.  I 
wore  my  new  dress  and  ate  crackers  for 
lunch  yesterday.  I  had  on  them  em- 
broidered hose,  too,  but  Harry  didn't 
show  up. 

Mother  said  she  kind  of  missed  some- 
thing out  of  our  lives,  but  she  didn't 
say  no  more.  She  went  and  asked  the 
kid  down  at  the  door,  with  all  those  but- 
tons on,  if  his  mother  had  sewed  them 
on  and  what  Sunday  school  he  went  to. 
But  she  said  he  wasn't  near  as  pleasant 
as  those  shop-ladies.  She  said  the  day 
we  bought  those  things  was  the  most 
sociable  day  she'd  had  since  she  came 
to  New  York.  I  took  Marmaduke's 
puppy  out  on  the  end  of  a  string  to  see 


THE  GOAL  KICK 


167 


the  Teddy  bears  in  the  show  cases  along 
the  sidewalks,  and  he  didn't  see  them, 
but  bumped  into  the  glass  and  nearly 


I  had  on  them  embroidered  hose,  too,  but  Harry 
didn't  show  up. 

broke  it.  Then  he  ran  round  and  round 
in  a  circle,  till  I  was  all  wound  up  and 
nearly  fell  to  the  sidewalk.  Then  he 


168      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

ran  and  barked  at  a  bulldog,  and  I  took 
him  home.  I  gave  him  a  bath  and  put 
him  on  a  mattress  out  on  the  fire  escape, 
to  dry,  but  nothing  was  no  fun  no  more. 

Then  it  was  time  to  go  to  the  theater. 
Poor  old  "  Babes  " — to-morrow  the  old 
show  was  going  on  to  Boston.  I  wasn't 
sure  how  much  the  owner  knew.  I 
wasn't  even  sure  he'd  got  a  new  under- 
study, or  any  one  to  dance  in  my  place. 
I  didn't  even  know  whether  he  was 
really  going  to  give  me  a  party  or  not. 
I  didn't  care  anyway.  I  read  the  con- 
tract to  the  "  Brigands,"  and  I  knew 
I  had  to  stay.  But  I  didn't  have  any 
written  contract  to  get  married  to 
Harry  Hopper.  I  knew  he  was  just  as 
free  to  go  off  with  that  lady  in  black  as 
if  he'd  never  know'd  me.  It  did  seem 
as  if  business  life  and  careers  was  all 
that  was  up  to  snuff  nowadays. 

They  was  run  on  business  principles. 
A  career  can  go  right  on,  whether  your 
heart  is  dead  or  not. 

"  Listen,"  says  Molly  to  me,  when  I 


THE  GOAL  KICK  169 

got  there,  "  he's  going  to  give  you  a 
party,  sure  thing.  We're  to  wear  our 
costumes  after  the  last  act,  and  the  sup- 
per things,  including  knives  and  forks, 
is  coming  from  Shanley's.  Just  the 
company's  invited,  and  a  few  Johnnies 
and  reporters.  Ain't  it  grand?  " 

"  Is — the  party  for  me  or  for  Harry 
Hopper?  "  I  asked.  "  Spit  it  out." 

"  Why,  for  both  of  you,  of  course," 
says  Lucille.  "  Are  you  jealous  of 
Harry  Hopper's  fame? " 

"  No,"  I  said  with  my  nose  in  the  air, 
"  for  I'm  famous,  too,"  but  I  knew  I 
wasn't.  And  I  wondered  what  they'd 
all  say  to  me  when  the  hours  went  on 
and  Harry  didn't  show  up.  I  wasn't 
going  to  give  away  about  the  elegant 
lady  in  black,  not  if  I  died  for  it. 

"  Say,  Min,  what's  the  use  of  getting 
so  pale  over  a  little  thing  like  this?" 
"  Will  you  keep  a  buggy?  "  "  Where 
you  can  get  ermine  muffs  for  fifteen 
dollars."  "  Wasn't  I  always  nice  to 
you,  nor  jostled  you  any  at  the  dressing 


170       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

tables? "  "  I  told  him, '  Now  Mr.  Brown, 
says  I,  '  if  you  want  to  say  one  word 
against  Minnie  Higgins,  you'll  have  to 
do  it  over  my  dead  body,'  I  said,  and  he 
didn't."  "  Oh,  I  feel  like  a  hen  that's 
gone  back  on  its  feed,  just  to  think  of  a 
mere  chorus  girl  being  made  so  much 
of."  "I  could  a  done  that  dance  just 
as  well  as  she  did,  if  anybody  had  a 
given  me  the  chance.  There's  so  much 
favoritism  in  this  world."  '  The  Bos- 
ton press  agent's  here."  "  Oh,  go  along, 
you're  a  nice  old  cup  of  tea."  '  I 
wouldn't  speak  to  her,  Minnie."  "  Did 
he  really  get  down  on  his  knees  and  say 
my  face  and  my  fortune  I  throw  at  your 
feet?  "  "I've  had  a  great  many  oppor- 
tunities to  marry,  but  of  course  I  ex- 
pect to  marry  out  of  the  profession." 
"  When  Mr.  Frick  proposed  to  me  he 
said—  "  With  his  arm  around  you,  or 
what?  "  "  Well,  before  I'd  be  so  stuck 
up—  "  Say,  get  me  a  job  in  it,  will 
you? "  "I  bought  this  rose  with  my 
own  money  for  you.  No,  he  didn't  buy 


THE  GOAL  KICK  171 

it."  "  Oh,  you  dear  little  old  thing.  I 
don't  see  how  I'm  ever  going  to  get 
along  without  my  dear  little  Minnie." 
:<  Listen,  dearie—  "  Ain't  she  an  aw- 
ful snob." 

I  could  hear  them  all  talking  at  once. 
Success  brings  them  every  time.  If 
you're  going  on  up,  and  they  think 
you've  got  a  big  genius  to  look  after 
your  interests,  why  butter  wouldn't 
melt  in  their  mouths.  I  mean  butter 
won't  melt  in  anybody's  mouth,  they're 
so  sweet  on  you,  if  you're  a  success,  and 
if  you're  a  failure,  a  little  yellow  dog 
wouldn't  bark  at  you. 

"  My  dear,"  says  Miss  Wyncote  to 
me,  "  we've  always  been  such  friends, 
and  I  hope  it  will  continue.  Rully!  " 

1  Thanks,"  says  I,  as  elegant  as  the 
"  Lady  Jane  Grey,"  "  it  will." 

And  will  you  believe  it — she  tried  to 
give  me  the  high  hand-shake.  I  didn't 
know  what  she  meant  at  first.  She  had 
the  lead  on  me. 

Then  we  merry-merry  trooped  on 


172       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

and  the  lights  and  the  music  was  gay. 
Poor  old  Babes,  I  thought,  poor  old 
Pickaninnies,  poor  old  "  New  York 
Peaches,"  you  won't  see  me  no  more, 
and  the  old  times — how  I'll  miss  them. 
When  the  company  get  on  the  Hi  alto 
again  in  a  month  or  two,  I  can  just  hear 
myself  saying,  "  How's  the  old  crowd? 
Do  they  josh  in  the  same  old  way?  " 

"  Minnie,"  says  I  to  myself  in  the  last 
act,  "  head  up,  and  nose  up,  and  eyes 
haughty-like,"  says  I,  "  for  the  awful 
moment's  coming,  when  that  supper's 
ready  to  be  give  me,  and  no  Harry 
Hopper  here,"  says  I,  "  don't  you  let 
them  know  you  care.  Be  a  sport," 
says  I. 

Then  I  acted — "  There's  many  a 
peach  on  Fifth  Ave-noo,  but  never  a 
lemon  there."  I  acted  funny  in  it  for 
the  last  time.  I  was  just  as  rediculous 
in  it!  I  thought  what  a  little  greenie  I 
was  when  I  first  acted  it,  and  that  I  now 
knew  the  world.  When  I  came  off 
some  of  the  chorus  had  tears  in  their 


THE  GOAL  KICK  173 

eyes.  I  don't  know  why.  I  was  just 
rotten  funny,  especially  when  I  walked 
like  the  peaches  on  Fifth  Avenoo.  I 
thought  of  myself  walking  there  with 
Marmaduke's  puppy  next  spring,  in 
my  new  Altman  suit. 

"  Now,"  says  Old  Bill,  "  everybody 
keep  on  their  costumes.  Clear  out  to 
the  dressing-rooms  till  the  stage  is 
ready."  Everybody  giggled  and  sang, 
and  whistled,  me  a-humming  along 
with  the  rest  in  my  great  big  hat  like 
the  Waldorf-Astoria  lamp  shade,  with 
the  violets  over  one  ear  and  the  ribbon 
over  another,  and  the  skirts  to  my 
knees,  and  my  little  blue  slippers.  I 
heard  somebody  say,  "  Oh,  she'd  marry 
anybody  to  get  a  raise,"  and  I  says, 
"  Fame  is  sweet."  The  owner  had  sent 
me  a  bunch  of  roses  as  long  as  my  arms. 
I  smelled  them  and  I  knew  the  awful 
moment  was  coming.  Everybody 
would  know  he'd  gone  back  on  me,  in  a 
few  minutes  they'd  know,  and  I  would 
be  dashed  from  my  pinnacle  of  fame. 


174      DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

We  all  marched  out.  Gee,  it  was  a 
grand  scene.  There  was  tables  spread 
on  the  stage,  and  a  seat  for  everybody. 
Even  Mr.  Orden  was  there,  in  a  fur- 
lined  overcoat. 

"  Here's  your  flowers,"  says  Molly, 
nudging  me.  "  Don't  act  like  a  mummy 
just  out  for  a  toddle." 

I  went  and  took  the  seat  they  showed 
me,  at  the  head  of  the  table.  On  the 
other  side  of  me  was  the  star.  He 
grinned.  Everybody  sat  down.  Every- 
body looked  at  the  empty  seat  next  to 
me.  All  was  quiet.  The  awful  mo- 
ment was  come. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Hopper,  Miss  Hig- 
gins? "  said  the  owner  of  the  show. 
"  Has  he  forgotten  the  date?  " 

"  You  may  search  me,"  I  says. 

Then  somebody  telephoned  for  him, 
and  some  ate  and  some  giggled,  and  I 
did  neither.  The  star  began  to  look 
coldly  at  me. 

Then  you  may  knock  me  down  with 
a  feather — Harry  Hopper  came  run- 


THE  GOAL  KICK  175 

rung  down  the  aisle  and  jumped  on  the 
stage  and  took  the  seat  next  me.  They 
all  clapped  and  jollied.  He  looked  at 
me. 

"  Well,  how's  every  little  thing  with 
you  this  evening,  darling? "  he  whis- 
pered. 

"  Oh,  so,  so,"  says  I,  trying  to  keep 
my  chin  up.  And  there  was  a  kid  with 
some  flowers  Harry  bought  me.  I  took 
them. 

"  I've  been  having  a  heap  of  trouble," 
he  whispers  to  me,  holding  my  hand 
under  the  table. 

"  Poor  boy,"  says  I,  before  I  could 
help  myself.  "  Have  you?  "  I  wiped 
away  a  real  tear. 

"  Min,"  says  he,  "  are  you  squeam- 
ish? " 

"  Oh,  not  so  very,"  says  I,  airily; 
"  I'm  just  an  ordinary  chorus  girl- 
like  all  the  rest." 

"  Oh,  get  under  the  carpet!  "  says  he. 
"  Do  you  know  what  alimony  is?  "  he 
asks — just  like  that.  "  Just  think  of  a 


176       DIARY  OF  A  SHOW-GIRL 

chorus  girl  who  is  young  enough  not  to 
know  all  about  alimony.  Well,  I'll 
never  let  you  find  out.  But  say,  dear, 
my  divorced  wife's  been  troubling  me 
unjustly  about  more  money." 

"  Does  she  wear  black?  "  I  hit  out 
for  a  come-back.  It  was  a  bull's-eye. 

6  Yes,  she  does,"  says  he.  "  And  she 
ought  to.  She  was  a  mistake  of  mine. 
When  she  wants  me  to  show  up  in  court, 
she  comes  after  me,  if  she  can  get  in, 
and  she  says,  '  Will  you  meet  me  there 
or  shall  we  go  together? '  She'll  have 
her  little  joke  till  she  dies,  but  I've  fixed 
it  all  up.  Take  it  from  me,  she'll  never 
bother  me  again,"  he  said. 

And  the  lights  was  up  and  larks 
was  in  the  air,  and  Harry  Hopper 
sang: 

"  Don't  be  mean,  my  little  Dutch  Queen, 

But  name  our  wedding  day. 
When  you're  near,  my  heart  feels  queer, 

Half  dead  with  love  I  am, 
When  I  hear  the  click  of  your  little  wooden 

shoes 
On  the  tiles  of  Amsterdam. " 


THE  GOAL  KICK  177 

And  I  said,  "  Not  yet,  but  soon." 
There  was  lafter,  and  giggles,  and 
songs,  and  flowers,  and  love,  and  lively 
feelings,  and  all  of  a  sudden  I  pinched 
myself  to  see  if  it  was  really  me.  It 
was.  "  Boston  papers  please  copy!  " 
says  Harry.  Her  nibs,  who  is  to  do  my 
dance,  was  there.  Jim  was  there,  too, 
with  the  Idiot  Child.  He  said,  "  Stage 
life  is  a  mockery." 

Jan.  19th. — Harry  says  I  can  act 
more  than  I  can  sing,  where  I'm  differ- 
ent from  Fritzi  Scheff,  but  he  says  I 
have  a  lovely  voice.  He  sure  is  good  to 
me.  It  doesn't  seem  as  if  I  deserve 
it  all,  somehow.  He  says  in  me  the 
stage  shall  have  one  of  its  brightest 
ornaments. 


THE  END 


PS3517.R865D5 


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